


This Unavoidable Thing Between Us

by ChillieBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bounty Hunter Hanzo Shimada, Bounty Hunter Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Non-graphic descriptions of injuries, OCs as Plot Devices, Pining, Pre-reunion, Strangers to Friends, mentions of cheating, minor language, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-01 13:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18335384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillieBean/pseuds/ChillieBean
Summary: Jesse has been keeping busy in his new life after Overwatch was shut down. Working as a bounty hunter has its perks: It takes him to every beautiful corner of the country, he gets to work on his own time, and he's making the world a better place by helping put the scum behind bars.Life takes an interesting turn when he receives a message from an old friend, and when his path crosses with another hunter who Jesse is sure is looking to claim the bounty on his head...





	1. Beautiful Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to This Unavoidable Thing Between Us!!
> 
> This is my McHanzo Big Bang18-19 entry, and I have been fervently working on it since November. My partner is the amazing Red, who has been an absolute pleasure to work with. You can see the amazing artwork [here.](https://colters.tumblr.com/post/183992035496/a-while-back-i-joined-the-mcbigbang-and-i-had) Go give Red all of your love!!
> 
> I want to take the time to thank Dee for hosting another amazing event. Helping her behind the scenes has been a joy as always.
> 
> This year, posting is taking place over two days. I will be posting three chapters today, three chapters tomorrow to draw this out a little hahaha. 
> 
> The title of this fic was shamelessly stolen from This Unavoidable Thing Between Us by Evermore. The fic is in no way influenced by the song though. 
> 
> I want to apologise in advance for any and all Australiana that's slipped through. This one's unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, the T rating is sitting closer to the mature end. The violence is no more than you'd see in canon, it's pretty non-descriptive, but some of the themes are a little mature.
> 
> I had a blast writing this fic, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. 
> 
> <3

"Good morning! What can I get you?"

Jesse glances up at the waitress, giving her a warm smile and taking note of her name. “Good morning, Mandy,” he replies, adjusting his glasses as he gives the menu a final glance, flitting over the list of pies. "Coffee and apple pie, please and thank you."

"Not a problem," Mandy says, tapping away at her tablet. When she extends a hand for the menu, Jesse hands it over and winks. “I’ll have it out shortly,” she says with a little smirk. She turns on her heel, and Jesse notices the way she exaggeratedly sways her hips with each step—something she absolutely wasn’t doing earlier.

Huffing a laugh, Jesse turns his attention to his tablet, skimming over the brief for his latest target. It has brought him to New York and Jesse can say with absolute certainty that he hates it. It’s too bright, too busy, and too claustrophobic for his tastes. Aside from Mandy and the rest of the waitpersons he has had the pleasure of crossing paths with along the way, everyone is a jerk.

But he doesn't have a choice in the matter—he goes where the money is, and the larger the sum, the better.

It’s like they say: The greater the risk, the greater the reward.

His target is Daniel Jones, successful and respected businessman. Jones has himself a high paying job at Guardian Life Insurance overseeing all sales teams, but is wanted for tax evasion, has several unpaid parking fines, and skipped out on his drunken disorderly court hearing. Then there's also the fact that he is cheating on his wife with not one, but two people—Renee Hill and Glenn Patterson—so the man is all-around a dirty person.

The bounty on Jones is relatively small, only $5,000, but that's all they are these days. Jesse suspects there’s another hunter who gets just as big a thrill out of taking out the top prizes that Jesse does, and is getting them before he can.

And Jesse does not like that. Not one bit.

With a sigh, he glances around the café. Dirty Daniel should be here any minute now for his morning coffee and brag session with his other just-as-dirty entourage. Jesse has only listened to them and their _drivel_ for the last three days now, following them as they go about their day. He knows Jones’ routine off by heart and is somewhat thankful Jones is a creature of habit because it makes getting to him all the much easier.

Jones' schedule is busy—and Jesse uses the word loosely. He manages to fit in two coffee sessions with his entourage, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, he spends an hour at the gym before lunchtime, he attends an off-site 'meeting' with one of the mistresses, and squeezes in an amazing four hours of work in a nine-hour day.

Home is his unhappy marriage where he drinks and argues with his wife. _Why_ and _how_ they are still together is beyond Jesse, though he supposes it might be due purely for the sake of putting on a front of a happy life for work. Or maybe it’s a green card thing. Whatever the reason, she doesn't put up with his shit, and at the very least, he doesn't lay his hands on her. He has a small sliver of tact, at least.

Tapping his finger on the corner of the tablet, Jesse looks at the clock, noting it is only a minute short of 9:30. Jones is cutting it close today, closer than he has in the past. Usually, Jesse can hear the man by now, but it is uncharacteristically quiet for a Wednesday morning. Humpday blues, Jesse drums it down to, because what else could be bringing these folks down? They choose to live in this busy city, this concrete jungle, boxed in like sardines in a can.

Jesse shudders. The sooner he's out of the city, the happier he'll be.

"Apple pie and coffee," Mandy says, placing them down on the table.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Jesse says, looking at the slice of pie, practically drooling already. "Looks absolutely divine."

"Best pie on the menu,” she says, drawing her shoulders back. She smirks, a little on the sly side as she none too subtly checks him out. “You've got good taste."

Jesse can't help but chuckle. "I like to think so too," he says with a wink. He has _excellent_ taste when he’s in his usual attire of jeans, comfortable button down, and serape. Not in this t-shirt, cardigan, and glasses look he’s rocking right now. However, a disguise is a disguise, and this one works wonders.

Glancing at his tablet, then at the clock as it ticks over 9:30, he picks up his mug and settles on Mandy. "But ah, keep the coffee coming. I'm going to be here for a little while at least."

Mandy makes absolutely no effort to hide her delighted grin. "Work?"

"Yeah,” Jesse breathes, picking up his tablet. “Got an article to write."

"Oh? What's work?"

"Investigative journalist. I take to the streets, go where the leads take me. There have been a couple of vigilante attacks here, and I'm reporting on them."

"That so! Those attacks are good, in my opinion. Putting the scum of the universe behind bars, taking them down when the police fail.” Mandy takes a breath, sighing wistfully and meeting his eyes. “It's good work. Their stories should be told."

"That's why I'm here," Jesse replies, chuckling. "Hopefully something happens soon, though. The bills don't pay themselves."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Mandy says. She looks him up and down again, smirk teasing her lips. "Do you have a name, Mr. Investigative Journalist? I'd _love_ to read your work."

"Joel Morricone,” Jesse says, extending his hand, and Mandy takes it. “Just look me up."

"Oh, I intend to," she replies sultrily with a slow wink. She looks at their joined hands and sighs, pulling away. "Anyway, I’m still on the clock, but I'll keep those coffees coming."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Jesse says, and Mandy walks away again with the same flirtiness as before.

The door opens, drawing his attention, but it still isn’t his target. It's possible that Jones is running late, it's also possible that he decided to skip his morning coffee. Either way, Jesse knows this will be a long day.

The minutes tick by slowly as he writes up an article detailing the vigilantism in New York to maintain his Morricone cover. Over the course of an hour, the patrons in the café dwindle, until it is just him, the group of women who have been here for at least half an hour already who are nothing but obnoxious laughter, and the man who Jesse is certain has been here as long as him. The man has got his back towards Jesse, and he looks absorbed in his own work, hunched over his tablet and sipping tea. Not really suspicious, considering Jesse himself is using this as a front for 'work', but he is someone to keep an eye on in any case.

He’s drawn from his thoughts when Mandy approaches, filling his mug. "Mandy, you are a literal angel."

"Just doing my job." Mandy pulls the pot away, and Jesse grabs the mug. "How goes the writing?"

"Good, I’m just putting the finishing touches on this section, then I might head out, see if I can find something out there."

On the corner of his eye, Jesse can see the man who's been in the café as long as him packing up his tablet. The man stands, drops some cash on the table and leaves. The only identifying features Jesse can catch is that the man is Asian, with a high ponytail and facial hair.

"Hey, that fella that just left, have you seen him before?"

Mandy glances at the door, then at the empty table. "First time here,” she says, meeting his gaze. “Why?"

"Just wondering,” Jesse murmurs. It’s the man’s first time here, and has been here for almost two hours? Definitely something to note. “He say anything?"

"Not much. He did say he was a graphic designer, and he was here for a change of scenery. His stuff looked impressive, though."

Graphic designer looking for a change of scenery... Jesse can believe that. Maybe he just moved into the city and is looking for something that isn’t a boxed-in ten square foot apartment.

"Interesting," Jesse murmurs, tapping his finger on the rim of the mug.

"Yeah. Wasn't the chatty type. Nice, though. Sweet."

Jesse huffs a laugh, eyes snapping to Mandy's. "You flirt with all your customers?"

Mandy crosses her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow. "You flirt with all your waitresses?"

Chuckling, Jesse raises his mug in a toast. "Got me there."

Mandy smiles and winks before she turns away, placing the coffee pot on the counter and approaching the table belonging to the graphic designer. She picks up the money, counts it, and turns, grinning as she mouths 'fifty'.

Jesse raises his mug again, and she stuffs the tip into her apron to clear the table. "Big spender," Jesse murmurs to himself as he turns his attention back to his tablet. He opens a browser, searches for graphic designers in the area as he drinks his coffee.

At this point in time, Jesse's certain Jones isn't having his morning coffee, so he might as well do something else with his time in the off chance he's just running late.

And the second his mug is empty, Mandy is by his side, filling it up again.

"Think this'll be my last one," Jesse says, shutting off his tablet and leaning back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head. His search came up empty and leaves him mildly frustrated. "Otherwise I'll be awake for the next three days."

"That would be a shame,” Mandy says, a little coy.

Jesse can't help but smirk. "Love me some sleep."

Mandy's eyes flit to his, just for the barest of moments, before she looks away and holds the coffee pot close to her chest. "So… The bill, then?" she asks reluctantly.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replies, offering her a warm smile.

"Coming right up," she says, perking up, maintaining that flirtatious walk as she approaches the bar and works the till.

Jesse finishes this mug quickly, uses the restroom because after six cups it's gone right through him, and by the time he comes out, the bill is on the table.

Picking up the slip of paper, it has a handwritten note on it: _I'd like to pour a little sugar in your coffee,_ followed by a phone number.

Chuckling, he pays for his food, dropping a $100 tip to wipe the ‘sweet’ graphic designer from her mind. He gives Mandy one last glance—she's already laying on the charm to another customer—and when she makes eye contact, he resists the urge to tip a hat he isn’t wearing, instead giving her a little wave before leaving the café behind.

Only when he is sitting outside Jones’ gym, finishing his sandwich along with everyone else on their lunch break, does he take the café receipt and scrunch it up with his trash. As much as Mandy was a lovely girl, he has no intentions of staying in this city a moment longer than he has to.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, confirming the time. 1:30 p.m., and there's still no sign of Jones. His session at the gym usually starts at 1:00 p.m., and if he hasn't shown yet, he Jesse's sure he won't.

Jesse _could_ drive by the mistresses houses. Maybe Jones opted to stay in one of their love nests for the day. That's where Jones usually heads next anyway.

But isn't it just his luck. Of course, the moment Jesse knows Jones’ schedule down pat, when he's ready to haul his ass into the police station, he doesn't show.

Considering there’s no point in loitering out here any longer than he already has, he stands with a heavy sigh. He stops in his tracks when he glances at the door one final time, spotting the graphic designer from the café. Now, this is _quite_ the coincidence—first, he spends the morning sitting in the same café that the target frequents, and he's here, now, leaving the _same_ gym?

Jesse gets a good look at him at the very least, and he doesn't recognise him. He doesn't really look like the bounty hunting type either—not that bounty hunters have a _look_ , at least—but he doesn't have a hair out of place and his goatee is well maintained.

He comes across as someone who is too neat, too pristine, who cares deeply about their appearance and what others think of him. _Not_ the kind of person who lives on gas station burritos and three hours of sleep a night like the other hunters Jesse's worked with in the past.

While it _is_ possible that this man a local resident who uses the same gym on his lunch break, it doesn't ease Jesse's mind that this graphic designer is a hunter just like him, that he's working this case too and plans to claim the bounty for Jones’ arrest.

He might even be the same hunter who is taking the rest of the bounties.

Curiosity piqued in any case, Jesse follows him, keeping a few paces behind. If he can't track Jones, he can track this man, see if he goes back to a firm, see if he has a place he stays at that Jesse can scope out. Maybe, then, he can even find out his name, do a bit of background on him and ease his mind.

Jesse makes it a block before the man glances over his shoulder, stopped at a set of traffic lights. If Jesse weren't trained for this kind of work he would have missed it given how subtle it was. It might be nothing, pure coincidence, or this man is absolutely not who he says he is and has been trained in stealth.

As naturally as he can, Jesse turns his attention to the shop he's standing in front of, a children's clothing store. Keeping the man in his peripheral vision, Jesse frowns before pulling out his phone, staring at the lock screen and taking a step back, looking left then right, feigning looking for a store.

When the light turns green, the man continues on, and Jesse uses that as his cue to follow, keeping his phone out and staying a few more steps behind him.

The man then stops outside a deli and faces the window. Jesse can see him looking in his direction from the corner of his eye. That raises a big red flag—if the man has the skill to know he's being followed by a former covert-ops agent, then he's clearly got something to hide and is more than a graphic designer.

Knowing he can't stop again, Jesse continues walking, keeping his head down as he approaches him. At the last second, the stranger turns to face him and Jesse knocks into him.

"My apologies," the man says, taking a step back.

"Think nothing of it," Jesse says casually, offering a smile. In the split second he has, Jesse takes in his features: his dark eyes, his strong jawline, his pulled back hair, the grey at his temples, his perfectly manicured goatee.

With a final nod, Jesse continues on, and cannot contain the smirk when he slips the man's wallet into his pocket. He keeps an eye behind him at all times and the man doesn't follow, so he's not _as_ skilled as Jesse initially thought.

Once in the safe confines of his hotel room, door securely locked and surveillance on, the feed to his door displaying on his tablet, Jesse sits down on the couch and relaxes. He takes off his glasses and drops them onto the table, rubbing his strained eyes. He should have taken them off the minute he left the café. 

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Jesse grabs his glove sitting beside his tablet and pulls it on before plucking the wallet out of his pocket. The first thing he sees when he opens it is a driver's license for one Ken Yamazaki, the photo matches the man and it looks genuine, so it's otherwise unremarkable.

He sets it down and flicks through the rest of the wallet. There are a couple of receipts for cafés, including this morning’s one—and Jesse secretly claims the win when Mandy’s number _isn’t_ on there. There's a receipt for the gym too, a single session which tells Jesse he's in fact not a member.

The last thing Jesse finds is some cash; $25 to be exact. There are no credit cards, no membership cards, business cards, or photos, and Jesse is mostly certain that this is not the man’s actual wallet, meaning he _has_ to be more than just a graphic designer.

Picking up the license again, Jesse analyses the photo. It was taken recently, the man looks the same; he still has the same amount of grey at his temples. He has no obvious piercings or markings, but damn, those cheekbones are to die for.

Jesse huffs a laugh. "Well, Mr. Yamazaki, you certainly are a beautiful stranger."

Setting the license on the coffee table, Jesse snaps photos of all of the contents in the man's wallet, making sure to put everything back where he found it. He wipes it down with his sleeve to remove his fingerprints before standing and sliding it back into his pocket.

Taking off his glove and tossing it on the coffee table, Jesse picks up his glasses, gets back into Morricone’s mindset before he leaves his room. He keeps an eye out for the stranger as he walks to the gym, handing in the wallet to reception and claiming he found it just outside.

As he walks back to his hotel, he thinks about his target again. Dirty Daniel’s _got_ to be somewhere, and in the bed of his mistress is as good a place as any to start.


	2. Alias

"Son of a—" Jesse huffs, parking opposite Jones’ second mistress’ house. Jones wasn't at the first, and his car isn’t here either—not in the driveway where he usually parks, not down the street. "What's the bet your wife had enough of you and killed you in your sleep," he mutters, wringing his hands around the steering wheel.

With a sigh, Jesse looks at his tablet again, checking over Jones’ schedule. Since he's in the suburbs, he might as well pass by Jones’ house before heading back into the city again.

It’s a quick drive to Jones’ house, and a check there proves no one is home. That leaves one last place to check: his workplace. Maybe he's gone on an emergency business trip, or he's buried under so much work he hasn't been able to leave the office.

Maybe there's a third mistress Jesse doesn't know about.

As he heads back into the city, Jesse can't help but float back to thinking the wife offed him, though. And kudos to her if she did—she deserves better than _that_ sorry excuse for a man.

Thirty minutes later thanks to traffic, he is finally back at his hotel. He has a quick shower, shaves his stubble, combs his hair back neatly, and dresses in his suit. Checking the time on his wristwatch, it's almost 4:30, so Jones should be in the office now.

Before he leaves his room, Jesse slips into his businessman persona, completely shedding the gentlemanly side of himself. On the street, he knocks shoulders with the locals. He hates it so much, how crowded the streets are, being in the thick of almost peak-hour, and vows that after this bounty, whether successful or not, he will take some much needed time off in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere on the outskirts of San Antonio, he decides, for all of its natural beauty and wide open space.

When he eyes Jones’ office building, he takes a deep breath and walks with purpose—confidence will get him the answers he needs. He steps inside the foyer, takes a relieving breath now that he isn't shoulder to shoulder with every damn person in this city, and walks up to the receptionist.

"Hi, how may I help you?" the receptionist asks, a thin smile on his lips.

"I've got a meeting with Daniel Jones,” Jesse replies, keeping his tone clipped. “Can you let him know I'm here?"

"Sure thing." The receptionist hands Jesse a tablet. "Please sign in, and I'll give him a call."

Jesse puts in a random alias into the fields using the side of his finger so he doesn't leave fingerprints. James Mason, the alias who flew closer to the flame than Jesse would have liked, but he has no connection to him, so it will be untraceable.

"Just bear with me a moment, he's not answering his phone," the receptionist murmurs as he dials another number. Someone picks up and Jesse listens to his conversation—it's clear Jones isn't here either.

"I'm sorry, it seems Mr. Jones isn't in today," the receptionist says, directing his attention to Jesse. "Mr. Clark has offered to meet with you, though. He is Mr. Jones’ associate."

Jesse recognises the name as a member of Jones’ entourage that he talks openly about his affairs with. "No, it's fine," Jesse says. "My business with Mr. Jones is somewhat personal. I don't suppose you know where he is?"

"I don't, sorry."

Jesse hums thoughtfully. Work doesn’t know where he is, so that rules out a business trip or offsite appointment. If Jones was sick, he would have been home. It’s _possible_ Jones skipped town, but he wasn’t showing any signs of paranoia that Jesse has seen countless times before, and Jesse’s real good at making sure he isn’t seen.

Unless the beautiful stranger had something to do with this all…

The receptionist clears his throat, gaining Jesse’s attention. "Sorry,” Jesse mutters. “I guess I could give him a call, leave a message and reorganise the appointment."

"Might be the best plan of action," the receptionist replies, frustration leaching into his tone.

"Thanks for your help," Jesse says, clearing his name from the field. It seems the world won't have to know about James Mason after all. "Have a good afternoon."

"Same to you."

Jesse leaves, now left with more questions than answers. Jones didn’t come into work, but where is he? Why didn’t he come in? What if the key to this mystery of Jones’ wearabouts is the beautiful stranger?

Loosening his tie and undoing the top button, Jesse turns onto the street. He wanted to avoid turning to crime and breaking into Jones’ place for answers, but he wants this damn bounty. Sure, he doesn’t _need_ the money, but it’s the principle, damn it.

Jesse casts his eyes into the park across the street. A nice, leisurely stroll in there might set his mind straight. He goes to look away, to find the closest intersection where he can cross without jaywalking, but does a double take, stopping in his tracks as he sees someone who looks exactly like the beautiful stranger. As they make eye-contact, he gets pushed from behind.

"Don't stop on the sidewalk, asshole!"

Jesse turns to see a little old lady who has to at _least_ be half his height—complete with a walking stick— sidestep around him, giving him the biggest glare he thinks he's ever been witness to. "Sorry, ma'am."

"Country people, I swear to f…" she mutters as she walks off.

Jesse frowns, ignoring her and looking back into the park, but the beautiful stranger is nowhere to be seen. He continues walking now, cautiously, keeping an eye behind him when he can because, after that, he can't shake the feeling that he is being followed.

The feeling doesn't drop when he gets to his hotel, when he locks the door to his room, when he closes his blinds, when sits at the dining table, Peacekeeper in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. He stares at the door, expecting it to bust in at any moment as the beautiful stranger kicks it in.

But that doesn't happen. It takes two hours for Jesse to relax, to finally let his guard down enough to turn on the TV and waste away the rest of the evening. He keeps the security feed up though, his tablet sits on the coffee table that he’s got his feet up on just to make doubly sure. As he glances out the window at the neighbouring building, he’s glad that he’s up on the tenth floor.

He eventually orders room service for dinner, and even though he knows it is coming, his paranoia spikes when there is a knock at the door. After checking that it is, in fact, a short blonde woman dressed in the hotel’s uniform complete with trolley and his food, and not a scowling Japanese man, Jesse lets her in, takes the plate, locks the door behind her and digs into his burger and fries.

At 10 p.m., in the cover of darkness, he heads out again. The drive is somewhat pleasant once he is in the suburbs— _how_ he encountered traffic that rivals peak hour at this hour is _beyond_ him—and he parks a safe two blocks away from Jones’ house. He walks past the house first, noting there are no lights on inside.

His house has no surveillance, so Jesse approaches the front door, notes that the sensor lights don’t turn on either, and presses the doorbell. He gives it a good minute and a second ring to confirm that no one is home before leaving and walking the block again. On his next approach, he keeps to the shadows, scaling the fence in one fluid, graceful movement.

Taking a breath as he stands, he turns on his flashlight and scans the backyard. Freshly mowed lawn and pool cleaner happily doing its job indicate that nothing is out of the ordinary. He steps onto the deck and walks to the back door, confirming it is locked before pulling out his lockpicking kit and unlocking it.

Once inside, the first thing he does is sniff the air. No telltale scents of dinner recently cooked, but more importantly, no rotting smell synonymous of a dead body either. He scans the living area first, then the kitchen, and everything seems in place—nothing appears disturbed, nothing is broken. It’s clean, though, no dishes in the sink, no jackets hanging on the back of chairs or dropped to the couch. Even photos of Jones and his wife are still in one piece.

He walks down a hallway, sees an array of wedding photos of them on the wall—happier times, Jesse is sure—and enters the first room he comes across; a study, which is just as undisturbed as the rest of the house.

Jesse sits at Jones’ desk and activates his computer, taking the time to look through Daniel’s search history. The last time he was on this computer was yesterday evening, and work takes up a lot of his use. Not surprisingly, there are links to five different adult entertainment websites.

Curiously, there is nothing to indicate an intent to skip—no airline or hotel websites browsed, no travel routes researched. It's possible he deleted the history, he'd be smart enough to do so to throw anyone off the scent, but this is a man who brazenly looks at pornography on a work device. Jesse is sceptical.

He shuts down the computer and continues on. His first real clue that something’s fishy is the fact that Jones’ car is parked in the garage because his wife _always_ parks her car there. Jones will still park on the street even if she isn’t home. So considering _her_ car isn't anywhere, and Jones’ car has been moved inside, that’s certainly peculiar.

It’s possible they’re together in her car. Maybe she gave him an ultimatum: their marriage or divorce. He might have dropped everything and left, on some lover’s retreat in an attempt to save it.

With a sigh, he steps back into the hallway. As he closes the door slowly, he hears a ruffling noise from one of the rooms he hasn't checked yet. Adrenaline spiking, he pulls out Peacekeeper and cocks the hammer, keeping her down low, non-threatening for the moment. The last thing he needs is to spook someone and get himself shot.

He approaches slowly, keeping his footsteps silent, before cautiously opening the door. The room is dark, but with what little moonlight is filtering through the open window, he sees someone in the bed, unmoving.

Jesse stays stock still, remaining in the doorway as he listens out for whatever that rustling noise was. After a few moments of silence, he aims his flashlight at the person in the bed, and it’s Jones all right. He’s definitely not breathing—Jesse can’t hear nor see it—so he raises Peacekeeper and takes a step in.

That's when he feels the cool press of a gun muzzle against his temple.

"Easy now," Jesse says, slowly raising his hands into the air, making sure Peacekeeper is aimed at the roof. He sideways glances at the figure, but can't get a good look without turning his head. "Ain't goin’ to hurt you."

The flashlight is snatched from his hand and tossed onto the bed before Peacekeeper is pulled from his grasp, held in the assailant's gloved hand. Jesse looks at them from the corner of his eye, they're dressed in all black, their face from the nose down is obscured behind a bandanna.

"He alive?" Jesse asks, gesturing to the bed with the flick of his head.

"No," the masked _man_ says.

"Did you do it?"

"No."

There's a moment of calm, and Jesse mentally breathes a sigh of relief when the gun is pulled away from his head. It's still on him, but it at least gives him the opportunity to look at the man front on—

"You," Jesse breathes, noting those high cheekbones and dark eyes looking at him.

The ones belonging to the beautiful stranger.

"You stole my wallet," the man states.

Jesse frowns. "We really doing this here?"

"He is dead and the wife obviously fled,” the stranger replies, not breaking eye contact. “So yes."

"Can I have my gun back, then?"

"No."

"Don't speak much," Jesse mutters, lowering his hands now that he is convinced the stranger isn’t going to open fire. "Wasn't your real wallet though."

"It still belonged to me. I am quite fond of that alias."

 _Alias_. Interesting.

"You want it? I returned it to the gym.”

The stranger stares at him for a moment, then pulls down the bandanna, revealing his face. "Why are you here?"

Jesse takes a moment to consider his options. He’s not above lying, but with a gun on him, held by a man who got the one up on him—an absolute rarity—it proves this man has skills and it’s something he doesn’t want to risk. The last thing he needs is to bleed all over this crime scene.

The use of the word alias raises a red flag, and probably a hint that the stranger knows _why_ Jesse is here despite asking it. The stranger claims to have not killed Jones, and assuming he's telling the truth, it leaves one other option: he is here to claim this bounty too.

Telling the truth is Jesse’s best option.

"He had a bounty on his head,” Jesse replies, not taking his eyes off him. “Was lookin' to claim it." He studies the stranger's face and is hit with a wave of déjà vu. There's something about him that is so familiar, but he can't put his finger on it. "You?"

"Same reason."

There it is, and Jesse can't help but huff a laugh. "You're the one stealing all my bounties."

The stranger scoffs. "They are not _your_ bounties." Then he smirks, a wicked little thing. "It is not my fault you are slow."

"Hey now, I ain't slow—”

"What is the saying? The early bird gets the worm?"

Jesse rolls his eyes; it seems this man _won’t_ shut up if he’s gloating. He turns his attention to the body in the bed. "So what are we going to do about this?"

"It is not my problem,” the stranger says. “I came here to bring him in. There is no bounty to collect if he is dead."

"We should do something though. Call the authorities."

"Do whatever you want." The stranger lifts his bandanna again and approaches the open window. "I would suggest leaving as soon as you can. Who knows what the wife has planned."

"Gun?"

The stranger looks at Peacekeeper in his hand, before placing it on the nightstand. "So long, Mr. McCree."

"Wait—" Jesse huffs as the stranger jumps out of the window, and by the time Jesse races around the bed, he sees the man climbing the fence and running off into the dead of the night. "Damn," Jesse murmurs, watching him sprint into the dead of night, impressed with his speed.

Jesse stares into the darkness. There's only one place the stranger can know his real name, and that would be from the bounty on his head. Since this man is a hunter himself, he should probably be thankful that the stranger didn’t try to take him in.

"Ain't fair you know my real name," Jesse says with a sigh. He turns to look at the body.

There is no blood, spatter or otherwise, on the walls or sheets, but shining the torch on Jones' neck, he can see the rope burns on his skin. He just has to look at Jones, at how pale he is, to know that the stranger didn't do this—Jones died hours ago. It most likely _was_ the wife, and considering Jesse has no idea where she is, that’s his cue to leave.

"Sorry, buddy, but it's not like you didn't have it coming," Jesse says, turning his back on the man, leaving the way he came in and jumping the fence.

He hops in his car, drives to his hotel, packs, and checks out. The stress of the day melts when he hits the interstate. Leaving New York behind—even empty-handed—is more satisfying than it should be.

He keeps driving until he crosses the border into Pennsylvania, stopping at a roadside diner for coffee. While he waits, he posts his article about the vigilantism rocking New York and gives Mandy's café a glowing review.

He hits the road again the moment his to-go coffee is in his hand. Stewing on the events of this bounty, he's frustrated for several reasons: His entire two-week stay in New York was for nothing. He has no bounty to claim. The stranger who is a hunter _and_ who knows his name—Jesse's real, true name that he hasn't used in months because he's been laying low as Morricone since the train heist. The fact that Ken Yamazaki is a confirmed alias _and_ that there is something so familiar about him that Jesse can't quite put his finger on, that’s going to bug him until he figures it out.

And there's, of course, the fact that he is still a beautiful stranger.

With that thought, Jesse turns on the radio, tuning into a station playing AC/DC's Highway to Hell and cranks up the volume for the distraction.

When he is finally in Texas, in the secluded desert, he'll do whatever it takes to find out who the stranger is.


	3. Hunter or the Hunted

_Chirp. Chirp. Chirp._

Jesse groans, groggily cracking one eye open and seeing darkness. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and groans again, longer, louder, something— _anything—_ to drown out the sound of whatever damn alarm is going off on his phone this early in the morning.

Knowing it isn't going to stop unless he does something about it, because he can't keep groaning forever, he blindly reaches for his phone on the nightstand, picks it up, glares at the notification and sits up in a rush when he sees that familiar chrome and gold logo.

Overwatch. 

Taking a deep breath, he starts the decryption on the file. After a moment it opens, a video with the name ‘Recall’ is ready to play.

“You did it,” he murmurs as Winston appears on the screen.

It's a short yet passionate and inspirational message from Winston, one of hope for the future, asking former agents to join him in a new Overwatch. Jesse's not surprised the big guy finally cracked. The world had become a dangerous place again, and something— _someone_ had to give. 

When the Overwatch logo appears on his phone again, he puts it into standby and sets it down on the nightstand. He lies on his back, staring at the dark ceiling of his motel room as he processes the message. He's surprised he even received a notification at all, given Blackwatch’s supposed role in bringing Overwatch down. Granted, he was told, when he went back after the funerals for the fallen, he would always have a place in Overwatch. But honestly, he thought it was a formality, a nicety—departing words to end on good terms for not defecting to Talon.

The thing is, he doesn’t _belong_ there anymore. Overwatch, taking in a man with a $60 million bounty on his head? They'll _never_ be able to keep a low profile. Trouble follows Jesse wherever he goes, and it sure as shit will follow him there, too.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. They're better off without him. Better off without the burden, the worry that one night, while they all sleep, someone will come in and arrest them, take them away, lock them up and throw away the key.

They will be _safer_ without him, and honestly, they don’t need him. They need people who can actually get it off the ground. Diplomats, healers, builders.

Echo.

Echo would, without hesitation, join them. She can do them a world of good, much more than Jesse ever could.

It’s a shame she’s locked up in storage, in some deep freeze in the Government’s hands, an asset handed over when Blackwatch was under investigation. Getting to her now would be impossible.

He _does_ have a head start, though. He knows Gabe smuggled away her activation chip, left it in a safe house in Philadelphia. Maybe, just maybe, if he can get the chip, he can figure out a way to bust her out.

_That_ can be his contribution to this recalled Overwatch. And this way, Jesse can keep doing what he’s doing: Playing lone wolf, jumping around the country, and ridding the world of the scum one bounty at a time.

Sighing again, Jesse looks at his phone on the nightstand as annoyance starts to rise like bile. Waking up to the news of the real identity of Ken Yamazaki would have been far more satisfying instead of being stuck in this self-depressive spiral he’s got himself into.

It’s been six months, and he hasn’t encountered the beautiful stranger again. Jesse’s even managed to get in a few bounties without having him crash in on them. But the fact he knows just who Jesse is is _not_ a good thing, which is annoying in itself because Jesse _still_ can’t figure out why he’s so familiar.

It also means that the stranger probably doesn’t know _where_ Jesse is. Would he go months without making contact if he were here?

...Would he go months without contact because he is currently in the process of busting in, ready to haul Jesse’s ass out of here and into the hands of the feds?

Jesse sits up, grabs Peacekeeper from under his pillow and stares at the door. His paranoia has been crazy as of late, in these last few months at least. Each day it gets a little bigger, harder to keep under control.

He _knows_ the stranger isn’t going to bust in because he suspects that if the stranger were to make a move, Jesse’s sure he’ll be silent about it. He wouldn’t knock on the door, pick the lock and get caught in the trap Jesse set up. He’d be smart enough to not go for the windows either—he’d _know_ that Jesse would have this place locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

And with that thought, something that’s become a mantra these days, whenever he wakes up in a panic, or lets his mind wander to the beautiful stranger in the dead of the night, he takes a moment to breathe, to remind himself that he is safe, that his world isn't about to come crashing down around him.

Taking a final deep breath, now that the anxiety is no longer eating away at him, he places Peacekeeper down on the nightstand. One step at a time, he climbs out of bed, heads to the shower, activates it, undresses, stands under the hot water and relaxes.

This isolation isn't doing him any good. He's been out, keeping to smaller bounties, but hasn't done anything as large as New York in the time he’s been in Texas. He needs to get out of this deep underground and enjoy the sunshine, properly flex those Morricone muscles again, even just for a couple of hours. There's only so many phoney reviews he can write about Morricone's adventures through Europe without it becoming tedious.

When he’s finished with the shower, he'll find a café and spoil himself, starting his day with coffee and a big, greasy breakfast. He’ll sit in a booth for a couple of hours, read the news, lay on the charm and test out his flirting skills because it's been a damn long while since he's fished for information.

Then maybe, _maybe_ he'll think about doing a bigger bounty again.

 

* * *

 

Jesse settles in the booth, coffee, waffles with extra bacon, and his tablet set up in front of him. He sighs contently—this feels good, feels right.

Watching a stream of the morning news, he wolfs down the waffles in minutes, gets three refills on his coffee, and the anxiety from earlier is nowhere to be seen. He shouldn't have let himself get this bad, he should have been coming out every day for some kind of human interaction.

The waitresses are sweethearts, which is nice, and this diner is mostly empty, which is great. He's keeping an eye on the patrons, though, making sure they come and go quickly.

Making sure one of them isn't the beautiful stranger.

He writes a new Morricone entry, finally concluding his European holiday. He starts a new one right after, waxing poetic about San Antonio's desert scenery, the dry air, the feeling of home he gets even though it's just that little bit different from New Mexico. How the people, the food have their own little flair that’s unique to Texas. His confidence rises with each word, and when he is done with the draft, he smiles.

"Another coffee?" the waitress—Amelia—asks. He should have taken note of her name earlier.

"Please," Jesse replies, smiling. He holds out his mug, and she fills it up. "Thank you, Amelia."

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, taking his empty plate.

One thing Jesse most definitely did take notice of was the pie sitting on the counter. "A slice of pie, if you wouldn't mind."

"Good choice," she says with a warm smile. "Apple's my favourite."

"Mine too," Jesse replies with a wink.

Her smile widens, and Jesse notices the slight reddening of her cheeks. "I’ll just be a moment."

Jesse can't help but grin, looking back at his tablet. "Still got it," he murmurs, adjusting his glasses and writing a review for this little diner.

His pie is placed down—more than a generous helping which Jesse is simply ecstatic about—and Amelia winks before turning away.

Jesse's stomach flutters, which catches him off guard. Amelia certainly is a beautiful woman, but if he feels himself being brought down by a single wink, then he must be in need of human contact more than he originally thought. He can't remember off the top of his head when he last spent the night with someone, which  _is_ a depressing thought.

Maybe, just maybe, he might rectify that in the coming weeks.

Tucking that thought away for later, he digs into his pie. Once certain that no one is going to interrupt him, he looks at the bounties his handler has sent to him. He scans the list, there are smaller ones, people who have skipped bail worth a measly $1,000. Some of the bigger ones are to take down senior members of Deadlock. Those will require not only a partner or group, but he's not about to walk into the hornet's nest and get himself captured when they realise his own $60 million bounty is better.

He has a silent chuckle to himself, as he has done nearly every time he glances at the list, seeing Ashe's bounty sitting right on top. Being in this region, she's there, and Jesse entertains the idea of paying her a visit. He can only imagine what it'll be like—she probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot him on site.

He glances at his prosthetic. It wouldn't be the first time.

Sighing, he continues scrolling, overlooking California. He hates Los Angeles with a passion, the people there are just too phoney. He’ll take the assholes in New York over all of them any day. He settles on Seattle, and there are a few bounties he can get his hands on which are right up his alley—the crooked people, the ones who think they're above the law because they make millions a year. The scum of the universe who think that they can get away with anything and everything.

He sets his sights on Olivia Miller, owner of one restaurant and two nightclubs. She's got a net worth of $10 million, and has missed three court dates for aggravated assault. She’ll do. He accepts the job and after a moment is sent through the power of attorney as well as known addresses, car make and model, drivers license and registration, phone numbers, social security number, and police reports.  

He feels a little rush of adrenaline as he glances at the documents. As he reads the gory details of the aggravated assault, he uncovers a long list of misdemeanours and felonies. How she got to where she is now with her criminal past is amazing, it proves she’s just as resourceful as she is dangerous, and is probably a lot dirtier than these documents show.

Damn, he’s _missed_ going after someone like her. There’s only so many young women he can arrest for skipping on their public indecency hearings before he gets bored.

And hopefully, her wife doesn't kill her before he can claim the bounty.

 

* * *

 

Jesse shivers as he walks the freezing streets of Seattle, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets.

Leaving San Antonio was a mistake. Why, _why_ would he abandon the warm surrounds of the desert and throw himself into the Northwest? It's _supposed_ to be spring. It's _supposed_ to be warm, but it seems Seattle didn't get the memo. He doesn’t need the money, he should have moved Southwest, or even headed Southeast and stayed in the comfortable warmth until summer.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The search for Miller so far has been a challenge. Miller’s usual haunts have come up empty, and have been for the last week. Her known addresses are vacant, so she is staying somewhere unknown. He can’t exactly bribe the bouncers at the clubs she owns either, because they’ll go straight to her. She’s surrounded herself around loyal people, and it's infuriating.

Jesse huffs a laugh. She reminds him of Ashe.

Miller’s credit card statements tell him she hasn’t skipped town. She purchased a meal at a café called Citizen Coffee just half an hour ago, and that’s exactly where Jesse is headed.

The second he is inside the café and he feels the welcoming blast of heat, he sighs in relief. He’s sure his nose is frozen, certain his toes are frostbitten, and as much as he wants to sit by the open fire at the back of the café and thaw out, he needs to act like a local, buy a coffee, casually take off his jacket and scarf and beanie and pretend like the cold isn’t bothering him.

“Hi,” the barista says, an inviting smile on his face. “What can I get you?”

“Hey.” Jesse approaches the counter, looking at the list of drinks on the wall. “Cinnamon hot chocolate, please.”

“Good choice. It’s freezing out there!”

Jesse looks at him and smiles. “It’s bad, I’m not going to lie.”

“Coldest spring in almost a century.”

“Definitely not me then!” Now Jesse doesn’t feel at all disheartened about his reaction to the weather. It’s completely justified.

“Not just you,” the barista replies, smiling brightly. “Anything else?”

“No, that’ll be all,” Jesse says.

“Okay! $4.80.”

Jesse reaches into his pocket, pulling out $10 and placing it on the counter. “Keep it.”

The barista smiles wider as he takes the note. Jesse gives him a nod before heading to the back of the café and parking himself in front of the fireplace. He hums in contentment when he feels the warmth radiate through his clothes.

Pulling out his tablet from his bag, Jesse opens a browser and searches for the café on social media. From there, he finds four of the staff who have listed the café as their place of work, including Caleb, the lovely barista who is making his hot chocolate right now. Caleb glances at him from over the top of the machine he is foaming milk and winks, and Jesse smiles in response.

Jesse bets he’s going to leave with Caleb’s number. If only he’d been a little older…

Jesse sighs wistfully as he turns his attention back to his tablet, following the breadcrumbs of Caleb’s life. He is twenty-five years of age, four years into his science doctorate, and hoping to finish up in the next six months, if his string of hopeful comments is anything to go by. His massive list of friends does _not_ include anyone whose last name is Miller, so that’s a positive.

“Here you go, one cinnamon hot chocolate.”

Looking up, Jesse meets Caleb’s dark eyes and almost gets lost in them. _If_ he had been older, Jesse wouldn't hesitate to ask him out. “Thanks,” Jesse breathes.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can get for you,” he says, almost seductively, and it leaves Jesse blushing.

Yep, he definitely needs to find someone. Someone older, with dark eyes who has a little grey in the hair.   

Snapping back to reality, Jesse looks at Caleb and smiles. “Will do,” he says, picking up his mug and holding it up in toast. Caleb winks before he walks away, and Jesse falls back into his seat and chuckles—he most definitely still has it.

As he sips his hot chocolate, he digs a little deeper into Caleb’s past. He has no criminal records, comes from a good middle-class family who also don’t hold criminal records. He can find absolutely no connection to Miller, making him the perfect person to talk to.

Jesse knows, ultimately, that it is a risk. Every single decision he makes is a risk, which is why when he makes eye contact with Caleb again and winks to get his attention, he knows it's just for the sake of the job. There's a chance he could get in trouble, in the event Caleb knows Miller and word gets back to her that someone is after her. It's happened before, but as long as he works with law enforcement and does everything legally, then he will be fine.

"Need something, gorgeous?"

Jesse can't help but smile, and for the first time in a  damn long while, he feels genuinely speechless. Brought down by a simple compliment. He _really_ needs to relax after this job.

"Sorry.” Caleb smiles coyly, gives this little but adorable one-sided shrug. “I can be a bit forward, but you're a good looking guy."

"I'm... It's fine," Jesse says, meeting Caleb's eyes. "When does your shift end?"

"Half an hour." Caleb turns the chair and straddles it as he sits, resting his head on his folded arms. "Why?" he asks, smirking.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks."

"Love to,” Caleb replies enthusiastically, lifting his head and giving Jesse a good look down. “Ah..."

"Joel."

"Nice to meet you, Joel," Caleb says, extending his hand, and Jesse takes it. "Let me finish up, and I'll be with you as soon as I can." Caleb stands, turns the chair and pushes it in before winking one last time. He walks behind the counter and disappears into the back room.

Once out of sight, Jesse leans back into his chair, exhales long and slow and loud. It has been _so long_ since he asked someone out for the sake of the job, longer still outside of it. He feels like there's such a small window for him to work with because Caleb _could_ realise that Jesse's been clearly out of touch with the dating scene and it could turn him off.

Jesse pushes that all aside, though, because he is here on a job, not to hook up with strangers. As much as he might be craving physical intimacy, he has to act like a gentleman and call it a night when he gets the information he needs. He can find someone when he’s himself.

Turning his attention back to his tablet, he sifts through his information on Miller one final time before looking up bars to go to. He finds a high reviewed one, memorises the route between there and the café, and before he knows it, Caleb's standing over him, those sparkling dark eyes looking down at him.

"Ready?" Jesse asks, shutting off his tablet.

"Absolutely."

Jesse stands, packs his tablet and his glasses into his bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“Aww, no glasses?”

“Only need them for anything up close. Eyes aren’t what they used to be.” He might be in Joel mode now, but Joel is having some rest and relaxation and _not_ working.

“Shame,” Caleb murmurs, and he looks genuinely disappointed. _If_ this were a real date, Jesse would be tempted to slip them back on.

But it's not, and he has no intentions of seeing Caleb again after tonight.

"So…” Jesse starts, getting Caleb's attention. “How do you feel about Heartbreaker?" It takes all of Jesse's willpower not to wince at the almost prophetic name of the bar. He should have absolutely picked another.

"Love it. it's a favourite of mine. You go there too?"

"I've been known to frequent a few bars." Jesse extends an arm and Caleb leads the way. "Don't mind a drink every now and then."

"Tell me about it." Caleb opens the door and holds it open, and Jesse smiles as he passes him.

It drops when the freezing evening air slaps Jesse in the face. He reaches into his bag again for his beanie, scarf and gloves, putting them on as fast as humanly possible.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Caleb asks, brushing his shoulder against Jesse’s.

"Just moved. Been here three months and even though it's Spring, I can't believe how cold it is.” Jesse can feel his jaw quiver, and he quickly suppresses it. “Isn't it supposed to be summer here in a month?"

"Doesn't get too warm here, actually," Caleb says. "It's nice. I hate the heat."

"Well, I prefer it."

"That's not a surprise, given your accent.” Caleb elbows him playfully. “Where are you from?"

"Albuquerque, born and bred."

"Hmm, I love me a good southern boy."

Jesse cringes. Any other circumstance and he'd leave this man on the street, but he needs information and he didn't come all the way to cold, rainy Seattle for nothing. "Ain't exactly a _boy_. And Albuquerque ain't _Southern_ either."

"Oh.” Caleb looks at his feet. “Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

Jesse sighs. He didn’t exactly mean to show offence. "It's all right. You aren't the first, you won't be the last."

"You gotta understand, I'm so far north, _everything_ is southern."

Chuckling, Jesse stuffs his hands into his pockets and balls them into fists. He is starting to realise that he has made a monumental mistake. He reminds himself again, information and get out—the less time he spends with this ignorant man, the better it'll be for his mental health.

He stews on his thoughts for the rest of the walk, imagining this exact scenario with someone he _wants_ to go out with—engaging in intelligent conversation, maybe already holding their hand.

The sound of Caleb's heavy footsteps stop, and it snaps Jesse back into reality. He looks back at Caleb's smiling face.

"We're here."

"Oh.” Jesse smiles apologetically. He needs to pretend to be interested in Caleb to get the information he wants. “Got lost in my mind a moment."

Caleb hums as he opens the door, giving Jesse a none-too-subtle look down. Jesse nods as he steps in, shedding his beanie and gloves, leaving the scarf to hang around his neck. The bar is simple, and not that full for a weeknight, which is perfect given they're here to discuss the target and not actually get to know each other.

Jesse scans the tables, before settling on the booths. "How about that booth in the corner? I'll buy the first round."

"Sounds good," Caleb says, placing a hand on Jesse's shoulder, sliding down to his bicep. Caleb bites his lip as he squeezes gently, and it takes an amazing amount of restraint not to recoil. This’ll all be over soon enough. "I'll have a strawberry daiquiri," Caleb says, meeting his gaze.

It takes all of Jesse's self-control to not call it quits, right here, right now. _Who_ in their _right mind_ orders a strawberry daiquiri on a date?

"All right," Jesse says behind clenched teeth, turning away and walking right to the bar before his brain takes over and leads him to the door instead. This guy couldn't be further away from Jesse's ideal date.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and he needs information.

He sighs as he stands at the bar, taking a moment to appreciate the bartender. Tall, handsome, hints of grey hair at his temples, and if Jesse weren't here for information, he'd hook up with this guy just so he can erase Caleb from his mind.

But when Jesse spots a wedding band, he reigns himself in. Doesn't mean he won't ogle this gorgeous bartender in any case.

"Hey, what can I get you?"

"Ah..." Jesse scans the bottles behind the bartender, looking at the whiskeys. "Maker's 46, neat. And a..." he closes his eyes for just a moment, in disbelief these words are about to leave his mouth, "strawberry daiquiri."

The bartender smirks, looking past Jesse then back again. "Not going well?"

"I have to have words with my friends who set up this blind date," Jesse says, voice lowered.

"Blind date. I feel you. Those are the worst."

“You're telling me,” Jesse replies, offering a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about the daiquiri, I know those are a pain to make."

"It's fine." The bartender's smile softens. "It'll only take a minute."

Jesse nods and smiles back, slinking into one of the stools at the bar. Trust this guy to be a perfect gentleman, too. Sighing, he glances at the door—he does think he could just slip away, find someone else he could get information from to spare himself from what will probably be a painful night. But, Caleb is clearly into him, he's pretty loose-lipped as it is, and with a little alcohol he should open up nice and easy.

"Here you go,” the bartender says, placing the drinks on the counter. “One whiskey for the guy with excellent taste, and the daiquiri for his date." There is a hint of amusement in the bartender's voice, and Jesse cannot help but smile. He's got a sense of humour too. Whoever his partner is, they're a lucky person.

"Sounds like you're having a laugh at my expense," Jesse says, chuckling as he stands.

"It comes with the job."

Jesse sighs again, looking at the two drinks. "What am I even doing here?" he murmurs.

"Only you can answer that one. Tell you what.” He pauses, and Jesse looks up at him. “Any time it's getting bad, glance my way, I'll bring out another drink. For you, I bet he'll sit on the daiquiri all night."

"Thanks," Jesse replies. "This'll probably be my only one anyway. I'll give it thirty minutes, see if he improves. If not, I'm done."

"Sounds like a good plan," the bartender says with a smile.

Jesse can’t help but smile back, taking a moment to appreciate the bartender’s adorable dimples. “How much do I owe you?"

"Seventy."

Jesse nods, pulling out his wallet and handing over $100. "Keep the change."

The bartender holds it up in toast, and Jesse raises his glass. He picks up the daiquiri, begrudgingly walks to the booth, places it down and slides into the seat opposite Caleb.

"Here you go, one daiquiri."

"Thanks!" Caleb looks at Jesse's glass, his smile growing wider. "Whiskey? You keep getting more and more Southern on me!"

Jesse places his glass on the table before he squeezes so tight it crushes in his hand. "I prefer spirits to cocktails," he says, making sure his voice is even and calm.

"I love cocktails. They're so fruity and nice and don't burn my throat."

"I prefer the burn, reminds me I'm human." Jesse picks up the glass again, takes a sip and hums, letting the alcohol sit on his tongue for a moment to appreciate the complex flavours before swallowing and savouring the burn. "Nothing quite like it."

There’s a long moment of silence, as Jesse works on keeping his temper in check, taking small sips of the whiskey. The bartender was right on the money with Caleb sitting on his daiquiri, he’s spent more time poking the base of the glass around than actually drinking it. Jesse thinks about just asking his questions and ending this ridiculous night, but Caleb beats him to it.

"So, you moved here for work?"

Jesse nods, setting the glass down on the table. "Yeah. I’m a journalist, so I go where the stories take me."

"Oh? Have I heard of you?"

"Probably not," Jesse replies. "I run a blog. It doesn't get very many hits."

"That's a shame.” Caleb picks up his daiquiri and takes a long sip from the straw. “What brings you here, then?"

"I'm looking into Olivia Miller. Successful Businesswoman. You heard of her?"

"The one who's been in the media for her crazy temper? Yeah! Everyone has. She comes into the café sometimes. Scary woman."

Jesse can't help but smile, he's got him now. "I've tried to organise a meeting with her, to hear her side of the story, but her people push me away. Don't suppose you have a schedule or something I can use?"

"She comes in Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, like four p.m. on the dot. Alone, but I'm sure she comes in with bodyguards or something. Everyone's plain-clothed but she's always got eyes on her. Could swing by on Friday?"

Jesse nods. "That could work."

It really could work. He's been unable to get a glimpse of her, so knowing she'll be at the café will help immensely. He can scope out the situation, see if she indeed has protection because that'll make getting to her difficult, but at least he'll be able to tail her and hopefully bring her in when she's alone.

Jesse smirks as he brings his glass up to his lips. It seems the daiquiri was worth it after all.

"Hey, um… Do you know that guy?"

Jesse snaps out of his thoughts, meeting Caleb's gaze with a frown. "What guy?"

"Guy over there," Caleb's eyes flit over Jesse's left shoulder. "Asian. He's been staring at you for ages now and I'm getting a weird jealous ex vibe from him."

Jesse casually looks at the bar first, then glances over his shoulder, and has to stop himself from scoffing when he settles on the beautiful stranger from all those months ago. "He ain't an ex, but I do know him."

"He's making me uncomfortable."

"Let me talk to him."

"Will you come back?" Caleb asks meekly.

Jesse truly cannot believe his luck as Caleb gives him this perfect out, and it takes an incredible amount of restraint to hide his joy. "Look, Caleb, you're a good guy, but I don't think this is working. You're not really my type."

Caleb’s eyes drop to his drink. "Oh."

"I'm sorry, I thought there was more here, I really did. I just feel like we're chalk and cheese, you know?"

"Yeah,” Caleb says, sighing heavily. “How much do I owe you for the drink?" he mumbles, refusing to meet Jesse’s eye.

Jesse takes a breath and holds it. A part of him feels a little sorry for just abandoning Caleb, especially if he's really taken it to heart. "It's on the house. Enjoy it."

Caleb glances at him and smiles weakly. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." With one last smile, raising his glass in toast, Jesse leaves Caleb behind and settles down in front of the beautiful stranger.

The stranger doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move unless it’s to sip on whatever amber spirit he’s drinking, and Jesse just watches, analyses his face because that familiarity from their first encounter returns, stronger than ever, and he just can’t place it. He’s certain he hasn’t run into this man before, but there's just something so bone-achingly familiar about him.

After a few moments and his patience wearing thin, Jesse decides to get this ball rolling.

"If I were a betting man, I'd say you were following me."

The stranger raises an eyebrow. "I am not."

"You sure? ‘Cause first New York, and now Seattle, six months apart? And this bar, out of all of ‘em on this strip?” Jesse scoffs, leans back in his seat and taps his index finger on the table. “Country's massive. It seems awful convenient that you show up in the two places I am."

"I am here for work."

Jesse narrows his eyes. "Better not be Miller, ‘cause she's mine."

"The listing was sent to me,” the stranger says offhandedly. “I was told that you were working it and that you would need backup."

"I don't need backup," Jesse growls.

"Tell that to Jeff."

Despite Jesse's rising anger at his bail bond agent, he ensures to remain neutral. "I'll definitely have words with Jeff. Look, I don't need you. I have the information I need to bring Miller in."

"And are you aware of her security detail? Not just the ones who are in suits but the ones in plain clothes?"

"This ain't my first rodeo."

"And are you aware that she is never alone? Two people could do well working this case."

"And share the bounty with _you_?” Jesse looks the stranger up and down. “The person whose name I _still_ don't know?"

The stranger opens his mouth to speak, before closing it again. "Who I am is of no importance—"

"It's pretty damn important to me. _Especially_ if you want to work with me."

The stranger picks up his glass, drinks the lot and stands. "You are competent, Mr. McCree, so I have no doubts that you will be fine. If you do not want assistance, then I will go elsewhere.” He places the glass down and takes a step away before stopping and looking back. “And I do hope that you do _not_ find yourself in trouble. You do have a sizable bounty on your head, after all."

"So you _are_ hunting me, then."

"No. Someone with an amount as high as yours is clearly dangerous."

"I…” Jesse takes a breath and holds it. People as cryptic as this stranger get on his nerves. “What's your play, then?"

The stranger smirks, a sly little thing. "You can be the hunter or you can be the hunted. I would much rather work _with_ you."

The final piece _finally_ slips into place. Jesse's heard those words before. Many times before, and he kicks himself for not making the connection sooner. _This_ is Genji's brother. And it’s so damn obvious now, from the widow’s peak to the eyebrows to the smirk. It’s the goatee, Jesse settles on, that’s what threw him off. Genji was always cleanly shaven.

He pushes that aside though, because It takes every single ounce of willpower not to lean over the table, grab Shimada by the collar of his shirt and knock him out for what he did to Genji. He knows how dangerous Shimada is, and the last thing Jesse needs is to let him know he knows who he is.

With a sigh, Jesse picks up his glass, looking at the alcohol. "I'd much rather work this one alone,” he says through gritted teeth, before meeting his eyes. “Thank you very much."

"I wish you well, then, Mr. McCree."

Jesse watches as Shimada stalks out of the bar. He glares at Shimada’s empty glass, balls his empty hand into a fist to resist the urge to pick it up and smash it on the ground—the bartender doesn’t deserve that. Bottling his anger, he downs the rest of his drink before leaving the bar, opting to walk the cold, wet, dreary streets of Seattle to cool down.

Hopefully, Shimada will eventually get bored of watching him and Jesse can sleep with both eyes closed tonight.


	4. Middleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor language, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and injuries in this chapter.

“Well, you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Genj,” Jesse sighs, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Haven’t slept in two days.”

“Nobody’s fault but your own.”

“Christ, laying it on thick,” Jesse says with a chuckle, looking at the image of Genji on his tablet. Genji stares back, wholly unsympathetic, and Jesse shrugs, picking up his mug of coffee, taking a sip.

“That better be decaf.”

“Yes,” Jesse groans, rolling his eyes. “Got a job this afternoon, I need the sleep.”

“So you _should_ be sleeping and not talking to me.”

“I can’t.” Jesse sets his mug on the table, pushes it around by the handle as he rests his head on his other fist. “Got something on my mind, and between that and thinking I am legitimately being hunted, I’m just a barrel of paranoia and insomnia at the moment.”

Genji hums, folding his arms across his chest. “You were never one to care if you were being hunted in the past.”

“That was before I met this fella.”

“Oh?” Genji smiles wide. “You met a man?”

“You’ll love this. ‘Bout six months ago I was in New York—”

“You met him six months ago and I’m only hearing about it now?”

“It was barely a meeting,” Jesse says dismissively, sitting back in his seat. “I was minding my own business, working a job, and this other guy's acting a little too suspicious. Ends up in the same places I am while trying to tail my target. I follow him, he knows I'm following him— _me_ , in stealth mode. So, I decided to see who he was by stealing his wallet—”

“You could have just asked him.”

“And suspected the ID was an alias. I go about my day, and that night we cross paths again. Except, this time, he pulls a gun on me.”

“Justified.”

“He didn’t do anything though, just confirmed the ID was an alias. I tried asking him who he was then, but he refused. _Then_ , he called me by my actual name and bailed.”

Genji frowns. “Your real name?”

“‘Mr. McCree.’”

Genji hums, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Jesse uses that pause to take another sip of coffee.

“The job was bust,” Jesse sighs, “and technically a crime scene, so I got out of there as soon as I could. Didn’t see him again until two days ago.”

Just thinking about Shimada, seeing his stupid smug face from across the table at the bar is setting Jesse's anger off. But now is not the time nor place for such thoughts, and he takes another sip of coffee for the mental break to cool down.

“And?” Genji prompts.

“I was working another job,” Jesse says, holding the mug close to his chest. “On an awful date—if you can even call it that—fishing for information when I see him again. In the same bar, staring me down.”

“He sounds intense.”

Jesse huffs a laugh. “You got no idea. You see, the second I laid eyes on him, way back in New York, there was something so familiar about him. Like I’d seen him before. But I’d remember someone that good looking—”

Genji tsks and rolls his eyes. “Can you, for one moment, _stop thinking with your d_ —”

“ _Then_ he said something when I had a chat with him, something I’ve heard before.” Jesse pauses, inhales and exhales slowly, hoping he isn’t going to trigger Genji with this news. “He said something I’ve heard you—and only you—say. ‘You can be the hunter or the hunted.’”

Genji opens his mouth and holds there, just for a moment. “Hanzo.”

“Yep.”

“He did not say he was bounty hunting.”

Jesse narrows his eyes and feels a twinge of anger in his gut. “You’ve talked with him and you didn’t tell me?”

“It…” Genji looks off screen, his shoulders slumping as he sighs. “Kind of just happened.”

“And you didn’t kill him? Last I remember you were still pretty pissed.”

“Well, Master said I should seek him out when he went back home, so I had his support at least.”

“Least you had _someone_ there,” Jesse mutters. 

“He did not come in with me. And things got heated. I couldn’t help it, really. I forgave Hanzo, with Master’s help, once I accepted what happened, but seeing him for the first time, in my family home, in the place _it_ happened…” Genji pauses, looks away and sighs deeply. “On top of that, he did not recognise me. He thought I was some random assassin, another assassin in a long line of assassins who have tried to kill him.” He looks back at the screen. “He did not recognise his own brother, and it stirred a fit of anger within me.” Genji pauses again and he smiles faintly. “I bested him, and he wanted me to kill him.”

“Seems like you didn’t, though,” Jesse murmurs.

“I couldn’t,” Genji breathes. “A part of me wanted to, I goaded him into the fight knowing I would win, but when I had the blade to his throat, I just couldn’t. I pulled it away, told him I forgave him, that it was time he forgave himself and told him to pick a side.”

“Pick a side…” Jesse frowns. “You got the recall too.”

“I did. I answered, I agreed. Winston said anyone who I think would be interested in joining is welcome.”

Jesse scoffs. “So you invited your brother? Of _all_ people.”

Genji’s features darken, just minutely, but enough for Jesse to notice. It’s warning to take a step back, and that's exactly what Jesse does. “A newly formed Overwatch could use a person of his skills,” Genji states.

“I’m not doubting that," Jesse says slowly, calmly. "I guess I’m just surprised that you _want_ him around.”

“Ten years is a long time to be away from my brother.”

“He almost killed you,” Jesse retorts.

“And I have forgiven him,” Genji replies, surprisingly calmly despite his scowl.

“You’re more forgiving than I am,” Jesse mumbles. He takes a sip of coffee to cool off. “He didn’t see you in the aftermath, he wasn’t there for the rehabilitation, the sleepless nights, the anger and resentment and talking you down from doing something stupid.”

“And I appreciate you being there for me, but this was my decision alone to make.” Genji inhales and exhales slowly, his eyes sliding closed. “I have forgiven him,” he murmurs, “and you should, too.”

Jesse opens his mouth to speak, to argue that this is a monumentally bad idea, but is cut off.

“Trust me," Genji says, opening his eyes and meeting Jesse's gaze. "Please.”

Closing his mouth, Jesse nods. He looks away, reaching for his extinguished cigar sitting on the ashtray and shoving it in his mouth, just for something else to do instead of aggressively chugging his coffee.

“I am not saying that you have to like him,” Genji murmurs, “but he wishes to atone for what he did. He deserves a second chance.”

Those words shake Jesse's very core. Blackwatch gave him his second chance, something he knows he didn't deserve for all the crimes he committed in Deadlock. Where would he be now if not for Gabe? In prison? Dead?

Genji's right, and who is Jesse to turn his back on someone who legitimately wants a second chance? He won’t do it for the fratricidal asshole, though, he'll do it for Genji. If Genji trusts his brother, then Jesse can be civil at the very least.

“Guess I can give him a chance. I got one, after all.” Jesse offers a weak smile. “Sorry for losing my temper.”

Genji relaxes, smiling softly. “You hardly lost your temper, and I do feel like it was justified. That is why I did not say anything. Not right away, anyway. I had planned on telling you once he made a decision.”

“So he hasn’t committed?”

Genji shakes his head. “Not yet. He said he wanted to continue working on his own for a little while.” Then he smirks. “He did not tell me about you, though.”

Now _that_ is somewhat surprising. Either Shimada knows Jesse is ex-Blackwatch and is keeping it close to his chest, or he genuinely doesn’t know. Thing is, anyone with two brain cells to rub together can figure out that he is the person in the leaked Blackwatch photos. Yeah, he’s grown his beard out since then to stay under the radar and it’s worked surprisingly well, but Shimada seems like a person who has many, many brain cells to rub together.

“Did you tell him you knew who he was?” Genji asks, drawing Jesse out of his thoughts.

“Thought about it,” Jesse sighs, pulling the cigar from his mouth and placing it on the table. “Decided it wasn’t the time or place. I wanted to talk to you first before I did something monumentally stupid.”

“Well,” Genji says with a smirk, “I appreciate you not going down your usual ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ route.”

“Not gonna lie, I wanted to reach across the table and punch his lights out,” Jesse murmurs. Genji frowns and opens his mouth, but Jesse cuts him off with the wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything _when_ I see him again.”

“That is presumptuous,” Genji says suspiciously.

Jesse huffs a laugh. “He said he wanted to work _with_ me.”

Genji stares at him through narrowed eyes. “Hanzo? You are sure it was him? He has never wanted to work with anyone before.”

“Said he knew I was dangerous, and that he'd rather work _with_ me.” Jesse smirks. “And he's got your signature Shimada eyebrows and dark, piercing eyes. I'm kicking myself for not piecing it together sooner.”

“Did he have a tattoo up his left arm? Or carry a bow?”

“A bow? He uses a bow?” Jesse scoffs when Genji nods. “No. Didn't have a bow on him, and he was wearing long sleeves, every time I encountered him.” Jesse pauses, thinks back to the gym. “Actually, he was covered right out of the gym. Probably means he wasn't working out,” he muses, meeting Genji's eyes. “But seems like he's keeping it covered, especially since he's not using his real name.”

“Possibly. But why you, though? What are the odds that he would find you and want to work _with_ you?”

“Sixty mil is a lot to some people.”

“Hanzo would not be in it for the money though. And no offence, but if he wanted to take you in, he would do it, without hesitation. You’re good, Jesse, but he is better. He would not toy with you.”

“Maybe that's how he gets his kicks now, by playing with his food. Or,” Jesse smirks slyly, “he legitimately likes this one hundred percent pure American, grade A beef right—”

“Stop,” Genji groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It would be more likely he wants to take you in than him being _into_ you.”

“Hey, I'm likeable. I get people's phone numbers more often than not.”

“And I don't doubt that.” Genji drops his hand. “But we're talking about _Hanzo_. My _brother_. There is _no way_ he would be into you.”

“Thanks, that's a boost to my confidence,” Jesse mumbles, finishing the rest of his coffee.

“You can take a hit," Genji says with a smirk. "Your ego had practically inflated to the size of the room you are in.”

Jesse can’t help but chuckle. “Anyway, as I said, I'm sure I haven't seen the last of him, and if you're convinced he's not hunting me, I won’t hurt him. Not unless you want me to.”

“Please do not harm him.”

“A’ight.” Jesse picks up his cigar again, this time lighting up. As he takes a deep puff, he imagines Shimada, apparently someone who doesn't work with people, agreeing to join Overwatch, work as part of a team. He exhales, and he simply cannot see it going down well. “And Winston was okay with you inviting him into Overwatch?”

“Yes. I got Winston’s approval before seeking Hanzo out. I think a part of him was relieved that Hanzo did not agree to join immediately.”

“He say when?”

Genji shakes his head. “As I said, he had things he wanted to do first.” Then he raises an eyebrow. “Winston told me you haven't answered yet.”

“They don’t need me.”

“Skilled marksman with knowledge on how to get Overwatch back on its feet? You are the right person for the job.”

“Man with a sixty million dollar bounty on his head and doesn’t want a leadership position, or to be stuck behind a desk while everyone else is having fun.” Jesse pauses, just for a moment, bringing his voice down lower. “Or to put others in unnecessary danger.”

“Overwatch would be better off with you there, protecting them, then without you,” Genji murmurs.

“They need Echo, more than anything or anyone.”

“Echo? But she is deactivated, in cold storage.”

“I know. Her activation chip is in Philly, and she’s in San Diego from memory.”

“That is what I was told too,” Genji says, bringing a hand up to his chin. “But you cannot go in there alone. It is too heavily fortified.”

“Wanna come along?”

Genji gives a flat stare. “Two of us can't take them on.”

“Hanzo too?” Jesse waggles his eyebrows.

“We would have a small chance, but even _with_ Hanzo, we would not get very far.”

“Yeah, gotta figure out a way to get her off base,” he murmurs, looking at the burning tip of his cigar. “I'll think about it.”

“Just don't get in any trouble.”

“Aww, you _do_ care about me,” Jesse says, grinning.

Genji rolls his eyes. “Someone has to. You are clearly not taking care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.” As if on cue, Jesse yawns, long and loud, catching him completely off guard.

“Sleep,” Genji says with the tilt of his head.

“Yeah, might be worth it.” Jesse can feel how heavy his eyelids are all of a sudden, and smiles. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Any time. We should not go so long between contact.”

Jesse hums. “If I run into your brother again, I’ll let you know. Hopefully, from another motel room and not from a jail cell.”

“Do you want me to contact him and tell him not to hunt you?”

“Naw, I’ll be fine.” Jesse pauses, wondering if he should tell Genji that he plans on letting Shimada know that he knows who he is next chance he gets, but ultimately decides against it. He wants to let Shimada know directly, not through Genji. He doesn't need Genji to act as a middleman. “A'ight, time to sleep.”

“Good night, Jesse.”

“‘Night.” Jesse leans forward, disconnecting the call and switching off the tablet. He puffs on his cigar, looking at the time and sighing as it ticks over 3:35 a.m.

He takes a final puff of his cigar before resting it on the ashtray to extinguish on its own. He takes off his t-shirt and sweats, draping them over the back of the chair before entering the bathroom and going about his nightly routine.

He didn't realise just how much he needed to talk to someone—he hasn't felt this bone-achingly tired in a long time. His limbs grow heavier with each passing movement, and dragging his feet, he climbs into bed and closes his eyes.

Hopefully, now that he’s got that off his chest and with Genji’s assurances that Hanzo isn’t going to bust in on him, he can get some decent sleep ahead of staking out Miller later.

 

* * *

 

“All right,” Jesse murmurs, crushing the empty energy drink can in his prosthetic hand and stuffing it in his bag with the three others he has finished. That’s a pack of four down in the span of six hours because of course, he couldn’t get more than two hours of sleep.

He finally mustered the nerve to contact Winston, just sent him a text apologising for his late response and telling him he can't join him right now. Jesse intentionally left it vague—saying he wasn't interested felt like lying because he _is_ interested. Telling Winston he'll join later felt forced, and he didn't want to give false hope in case he never _does_ join.

Winston texted back immediately, saying it was fine and to take his time. Jesse _knows_ Winston though—he'll be disappointed. He wanted to text back, to tell Winston that he is going after Echo, but it's something he doesn't want to promise and not deliver. Echo is the beacon this new Overwatch needs, and he doesn't want to get Winston's hopes up.

He's kept busy since then; getting himself snacks and energy drinks for his stakeout and preparing to take Miller in. He's kept an eye out for Shimada, and so far Jesse hasn’t seen him. But the guy has been running from assassins for the better part of a decade, if he doesn’t want to be seen, he _won’t_ be seen.

Right now, that thought doesn't matter. Approaching 4:00 p.m., Jesse is watching the café from the park across the road, keeping tabs on everyone who walks in. So far, no one looks suspicious, not in an ‘I’m only here to bodyguard Miller’ type anyway, but he knows there are plain-clothed guards, and their job will be to blend in and not look suspicious in the slightest.

Good thing Jesse’s a master at identifying these people.

He sees Miller approach, and he smirks. “Showtime,” he murmurs, watching. She clearly has one guard on her, they're dressed casually despite having an earpiece and a gun in a holster that’s concealed but he knows it’s there by their stance.

He shifts his attention to the patrons in the café when she walks in, and almost immediately he picks up on three who look up. One looks back down at their phone, a little disappointed, so they’re probably waiting for someone else. One gives a nod when he makes eye contact with the guard, and the third who goes back to the book they're reading.

Miller walks to the person who nodded at the guard and takes a seat. It seems they were expecting her. The disappointed person perks up again when the door opens and practically leaps into a man’s arms. The third puts down his book and watches the café as he slowly sips his coffee. If Jesse had to hedge his bets, that person is a bodyguard too.  

Miller's plain-clothed guard, to-go coffees in both her hands, sits at Miller's table. It looks like a business meeting more than anything, a respectable distance is kept between Miller and the person she's meeting with. There's no flirting, no casual touches. A short twenty minutes later, Miller and her bodyguard leave, the person she met with stays behind, tapping at their phone.

The couple suspiciously follows Miller out, and even though they went separate ways, Jesse will be keeping an eye out for them for the rest of the day. The third person remains in the café, and Jesse leaves them behind to tail Miller. He finally has eyes on her, he's not about to let her out of her sight.

If only he had Shimada—no, he doesn’t _need_ Shimada for anything. He can do this alone. He'll just wait till the dead of night to get her.

Jesse follows Miller from the café to her restaurant, where he puts a tracker on her car, then to one of her nightclubs. He easily hacks into the security feeds, keeping an eye on Miller at all times, waiting patiently for her to leave.

When fatigue starts to set in, he buys another four-pack of energy drinks at the convenience store across the street from the nightclub. On his sixth for the day he stops, he can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, and that is not a good place to be when he is about to make an arrest.

It does the trick to keep him awake though, because at 2:11 a.m., Miller finally leaves. He follows her to a house in the suburbs, another affluent neighbourhood which he isn’t surprised about. Why she would be here when her actual house is not ten minutes away is strange, though. It's possible she's caught onto the fact that there's a bounty on her head and she's laying low.

Jesse continues driving for a minute before parking down the street, close enough to have eyes on the driveway at the very least. He jots down the address and waits, reading her associated paperwork to stave off sleep.

After a long hour spent resisting the urge to crack open the seventh can, there is finally movement and the guards who drop her off leave. _That_ surprises the hell out of him. Miller _must_ think she is protected by a ridiculously expensive security system, but that will ultimately pose no issue to Jesse.

He knows from Miller’s texts that her wife is away on a business trip, so unless she's sleeping around, which there has been nothing to indicate that she is, Jesse's certain she is now alone.

It's a risk busting in on her now with too many unknown variables, but considering she has been untrackable this last week, he’s not going to let this opportunity go to waste.

First, he contacts the local police department, letting them know that he is going to arrest her and bring her in. Being in Washington, he grabs his duffel bag from the backseat, pulling out his vest which has the words 'Bail Enforcement Agent' on it so Miller is aware of who Jesse is, and puts it on.

Then, he moves his truck to the front of her house. Armed with Peacekeeper, a set of handcuffs he hopefully won’t have to use, and the warrant for her arrest, he walks down the long driveway.

He doesn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary. The garden is immaculately landscaped, the house, an old Colonial that has to be over two hundred years old is pristine, no cracked or peeling paint on the wooden boards.

The sensor lights don’t come on as he approaches the front door, a sign that she's not expecting anyone. The doorbell does have a camera on it, and he makes sure he's seen, his vest clearly visible as he presses the ringer.

There is an eerie silence, and Jesse is on high alert in case she tries to skip. After more than a few moments, he rings the doorbell again. It’s likely she won’t answer, not this late at least, and he considers his options. In Washington, he can—

The light on the other side of the door turns on, and Jesse takes a deep breath. “Who’s there?” Miller asks, voice carrying through the intercom.

Jesse's fingers twitch, and he gets ready to unholster Peacekeeper. He knows she can see just who he is. “I just want to talk.”

“It’s three in the morning. Come back tomorrow. Or never. Whatever it is you want, I'm not interested.”

He should have figured she wouldn’t open the door, but he had to try. “Olivia Miller, I have a warrant for your arrest. Open up and cooperate, and I won’t have to put you in handcuffs.”

There is a pause, and Jesse pushes back his jacket.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll add resisting arrest to your list of charges.”

Before Jesse can even blink, he hears a gunshot and feels a scorching hot pain in his arm. He looks down at his bicep and sees blood. “Now I’m definitely adding ‘grievous bodily harm to a bail enforcement agent’ to your list of charges,” Jesse says through gritted teeth. He ignores the wound and unholsters Peacekeeper, eyes flitting to the hole in the door. 

The door opens, and Miller steps through, rifle aimed at Jesse’s chest. Jesse raises Peacekeeper in response. “And if I kill you?” Miller asks. “Will anyone come?”

“More will come. The police have been notified.”

“Then I’ll just have to take your body with me.” She moves her finger over the trigger and Jesse is ready to pull his, but he hears a whistle past his ear and sees _something_ fly past Miller. She screams, drops the rifle, cups the right side of her neck and falls to her knees.

Jesse looks behind him, and he sees Shimada approaching, smug grin on his face.

“I _had_ this!” Jesse growls.

“She was going to pull the trigger.”

“I would’ve shot first. You have _no_ right—”

“What the hell _was_ that,” Miller cries.

“Arrow.” Shimada pulls her up to standing and pulls her hand away from her neck, inspecting her wound. “A flesh wound,” he says dismissively. “You are under arrest.” Shimada moves to cuff her, and Jesse pulls him back.

“I got it,” Jesse barks. He stares Shimada down until he backs away. “Get your weapon before it’s confiscated,” he mutters, gesturing to the direction the arrow flew with the tilt of his head as he cuffs Miller.

Jesse walks Miller up to his pickup, guiding her in. As he closes the door, he watches Shimada help himself, sitting in the passenger seat without a damn invitation. Jesse can’t help it but he rolls his eyes, opening his door and climbing in.

It’s a tense silence all the way to the police station. Jesse decides to press charges against Miller because honestly, he’s that pissed off with this whole situation he's got to take it out on someone. He ignores the officer’s suggestions to go to the ER, citing a flesh wound despite it being more than that. He can deal with it himself.

But most frustratingly, Shimada does not leave his side the entire time she is being processed. Shimada cooperates, says more words than Jesse's ever heard him speak. He's also not above lying to the police either; when they ask what the wound on her neck is, he tells them it was a knife. Miller, for whatever damned reason, doesn't dispute it.

Once it's finally over with, Jesse expects Shimada to leave him be. But, of course, he follows Jesse right to his truck and sits in the passenger seat.

“You have _some_ _nerve_ —”

“Save it,” Shimada replies flatly, grabbing Jesse's arm. Jesse pulls away, and Shimada scowls. “Jeff assigned me this case once I told him you had refused. He told me you would throw a fit but I am big enough to take you.”

“Big enough?” Jesse scoffs. “You better not fuck with me, Shimada.”

That catches Shimada’s attention, and he stares at Jesse, eyes wide and mouth agape just for a moment before snapping it shut.

“Yeah, I _know_ who you are. I _know_ what you did to your brother.”

Shimada just sits there, unmoving, and honestly, Jesse wishes he would just leave. He starts the truck to get him moving, he’s got better things to do than entertain Shimada any longer in a parking lot, like take care of his damn gunshot wound.

“How…” Shimada says quietly, so quietly Jesse almost misses it.

Jesse inhales and exhales slowly, trying to keep his temper in check.

He promised Genji.

“I used to work with your brother,” Jesse replies calmly. “He and I are friends.”

Shimada glances at him. “You are Overwatch too.”

“Not quite.” Jesse takes a breath and holds it, wringing his hands around the steering wheel. He told Genji he would give his brother a chance, and promised not to sock him one, despite how much his body is screaming for it. “Look. I appreciate you having my back back there. I don’t mind splitting this bounty considering Jeff assigned you, but what’s your endgame here? _Really_? You didn’t know I was Overwatch, you know of my own bounty, but you’re not going to turn me in?”

“I…” Shimada pauses, gives Jesse a long stare. “I am on an assignment.”

“So I _am_ your target, then.”

“I was offered a job to assassinate you, actually. Apparently, you know too much.”

Jesse pulls his hands away and rests them flat on his thighs before he bends the steering wheel. “By whom?”

“An organisation who has been looking to align themselves with me for years.”

“Talon,” Jesse seethes.

“You know of them.”

“Bane of my existence,” Jesse mutters, looking Shimada up and down. “I’m not one to tell others how to do their job, but if you were sent to assassinate me, I’m sure I’d be dead ten times over by now.”

“I have no interest in doing their dirty work. And as such, you will remain alive.”

“Thanks,” Jesse retorts, like Shimada is giving him an option in the matter. “Doesn’t explain why you’re tailing me.”

“I figured I would see who you are for myself.” He gives Jesse a sidelong glance. “I deem you unremarkable and Talon must be holding a personal grudge.”

Well, it seems like backhanders are a Shimada trait. That ticks Jesse into the red, and he's done playing nice, he's done listening to the drivel coming out of Shimada’s mouth.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook for what you did to Genji,” Jesse spits.

“You would not understand—”

“You tried to _kill_ him. Hell, you thought you’d succeeded. Your own _brother_.”

“You do not understand—”

“I understand plenty,” Jesse growls. “You were just _weak,_  doin’ your clan’s dirty work. He was your own flesh and blood, Shimada, and you _tore_ him to _pieces_.”

Shimada gapes at him like a deer caught in the headlights, and Jesse catches the subtle tremor in his balled fists. “You will not see me again,” he says calmly despite his demeanour. He opens the door and steps out, and frustratingly doesn't even slam it behind him, just closes it normally.  

Jesse watches him stalk away, and once he is gone from sight, he channels his anger, hitting the steering wheel with his flesh hand. It doesn’t make him feel better by any means, hell it just makes his arm burn even more.

He looks at the wound, at his blood-soaked sleeve, and with a heavy sigh, he finally leaves the parking lot, driving back to his motel and stewing on his words. He probably shouldn't have said those things, he didn't exactly want to reveal that he knew Shimada’s true identity in that manner, but damn, seeing him flounder and shutting him the hell up was satisfying.

He sighs again when he pulls up to the motel. He'll have to tell Genji what happened. Jesse promised him he would give his brother a chance and did exactly the opposite.

No. Shimada deserves each and every one of those words. That little spat—that _truth—_ is _nothing_ compared to what Genji has endured over the years.

Making that tomorrow's problem, Jesse steps into his motel room, locks the door and opens the camera footage on the tablet sitting on the dining table. He grabs his bag, digging through it for the first aid kit Angie gave him before shedding his jacket, his chest plate, and his shirt.

Sitting at the table, he analyses the wound. It's not bleeding much anymore, but the bullet is still in him, he can feel it with each agonising movement. Thankfully it _is_ shallow enough at least that he can tend to it on his own.

Taking a good couple gulps of bourbon to help take the edge off, he realises he probably shouldn't have turned Shimada away considering he showed a minuscule hint of concern. Having someone else do this is always easier.

But it doesn't matter now—Shimada isn't here and this isn't Jesse's first rodeo. Taking another gulp of bourbon and pushing Shimada out of his mind, he pulls out the sealed sterile kit, opens it up and grabs the tweezers. He rests his elbow on the table as he inspects the wound again, and as quick and as still as he can, he plucks out the bullet.

He groans as he drops it into the tray, immediately picking up the biotic ampule, injecting it into his arm to repair the damaged tissue. He takes another swig of bourbon, and once the wound stops bleeding, he closes it up with the dermal regenerator.

Breathing a sigh of relief and falling back into the chair when the wound is closed and the pain begins to subside, he thanks his lucky stars that he has Angie for a friend who kindly leant him this technology; saying she’d rather him have this then end up in a freezer. He should message her and check in, it’s been a hot minute since he last spoke with her.

He looks at the bright pink round scar, and cautiously lifts his arm. There is definitely tenderness, but it's not the worst pain he's had to deal with. He'll have to take it easy over the next couple of days but otherwise it’ll fade with time.

With a tired groan, he stands, bundling up the ruined jacket and shirt, and stuffs them into his duffel bag. He’ll deal with disposing of them later. He sheds his boots, jeans, and underwear, leaving them where they fall on the ground, entering the bathroom and activating the shower.

He lets the hot water cascade down his back as he goes over his conversation with Shimada again—what he wishes he said, and what he _could_ have said. He doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that he talked to Genji beforehand—he definitely pulled his punches thanks to their conversation, and probably would have physically punched Shimada had he not talked to Genji.

In the end, it doesn’t matter; what’s done is done, as tame as it was.

He sighs as he stands to full height, washing the blood off his arm. He’ll have to tell Genji they had another encounter, and ask if his brother his already contacted him.

Either way, as he goes over the situation with Shimada again as he packs his bags, when he checks out and when he hits the open road, headed for Philly, Jesse’s sure he hasn’t seen the last of him.

If there’s one thing he knows about Shimadas thanks to Genji, and considering his brother has the same mannerisms as him, it’s that they’re too stubborn and too proud to leave an argument hanging.


	5. Better the Devil You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning, a lot of the minor language is contained in this chapter.

It’s shady, and Jesse has a nervous feeling about it all, but he needs it done.

It was the only way he could organise transfer of Echo from San Diego to Colorado Springs, cutting through Arizona. His hacking skills are minimal at best, so breaking into the military database was something he could never do on his own.

He’s lucky that he was owed a favour, because Sombra is the only person who can get in and do what needs to be done without setting off any alarms. He doesn’t _trust_ anyone else to handle this job.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

Still doesn’t mean he likes it.

“Stop pacing, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

Jesse huffs, stops, folds his arms across his chest and drops into the seat next to Sombra. He plucks a cigar from his pocket and places it between his teeth, grabbing his lighter next—

“No smoking,” she says without looking away from her floating display. “This is sensitive equipment and I don’t need your _filth_ destroying it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jesse pockets the lighter, keeping the cigar in his mouth for something to do to ease his anxiety.

They're in a room of what is probably the seediest pay-by-the-hour motel Chicago has to offer, with its ridiculously thin walls and disgustingly dirty bed. Jesse can _see_ the stains from across the room. The advantage of such places is that you can get in and out and no one will bat an eye. Everyone keeps their head down because no one wants to be seen.

Sombra yawns, long and loud, breaking Jesse from his thoughts. She actually looks bored by this whole process.

His eyes flit to the endless lines of code appearing on her display, impressed by how quickly she's tearing down the encryption. Yep, there’s no way he’d be able to do this on his own. Not without being discovered at the very least.

“I’m in,” Sombra says, and she perks up a little. “It _never_ ceases to amaze me how lax the American Army’s encryption is.”

Jesse pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket with the items he wants to be transferred, complete with a date and time for their departure. All of it is weapons with the exception of Item 359: Echo.

“Do I want to know what you’re planning?”

“Even if you did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Aww,” she says, glancing at him and grinning from ear to ear, snatching the paper out of his hands, “I thought we were friends, _Joel_.”

“Seems like our definitions are two different things,” Jesse mutters.

“So cold,” Sombra replies, turning her attention to the monitor. She splays her left hand, revealing a second floating interface and taps away at it, glancing down at the paper every now and then. “Done.”

“That’s it?” Jesse asks, surprised.

“Yep. I work fast.” She holds the paper between her index and middle fingers and Jesse takes it as she waves her other hand, the interface and display disappear. “You hired the best, after all.”

Jesse stands, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “Can’t argue with that.”

“We’re even?” she asks, standing up and meeting his gaze.

“Yep. All bets are off. You can go back and do whatever it is you do with Talon.”

“Not much these days,” she says with a small shrug, before a flirty smirk teases her lips. “You know me, amigo, don’t work for anyone but myself. Like you.”

“Yeah,” Jesse says dismissively, placing the cigar in his mouth before stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sombra has no good objective. He might have needed her to break into the military database, but his intentions are still good.

Approaching the door, Jesse places his hand on the handle before glancing over his shoulder. “Catch you around, _Olivia_.”

He chuckles as he leaves, ignoring her string of curse words after he did promise never to utter her real name aloud. Hopefully, pulling in a favour as big as this will be worth it.

With a sigh, he hops in his pickup, pulling his lighter from his pocket and finally lights his cigar. He takes a deep puff, humming and relaxing back into his seat as the stress and uncertainty of this meeting dissipates like the smoke with his exhale.

He pulls the paper from his pocket again, resting it in the palm of his prosthetic as he lights a corner. The paper curls and turns to ash, and once it's completely burned, he opens his window, letting the wind carry it away.

Taking a deep puff of his cigar, he starts up his truck and drives off, wondering if getting Deadlock to take the bait and crash the train for him will be harder.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell, Jesse?!”

“What?” Jesse leans back in his seat, lighting up his cigar and taking a puff. “Don't tell me your brother can dish shit but can't take it.”

Genji sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That's _not_ what I mean. You sustained a gunshot wound, _then_ pushed away the one person who was _willing_ to help you.”

“I didn't need his help,” Jesse retorts. “Angie was kind enough to lend me some equipment and I did just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

Genji opens his mouth to say something but quickly snaps it shut. He looks away, just for a moment, before sighing, running his fingers through his hair and hanging his head low. “You didn't have to be a dick to him, either.”

“I was a perfect gentleman, I’ll have you know.”

“You did not give him the opportunity to explain himself.”

Jesse scoffs, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “He almost killed you. There's _nothing_ to explain.”

“I thought I made myself clear,” Genji says, scowling.

“You said not to hurt him.” Jesse shrugs, looking at the tip of his cigar. “I didn't.”

“That means emotionally too.”

“Aww, did I hurt his poor feelings,” Jesse retorts, making sure every ounce of sarcasm he can muster drowns his words. He picks up his glass, downing the remaining bourbon before pouring more.

“You interrupted him. Twice.”

“And?”

“Do you know what would have happened if he said no?”

If Genji were anyone else, Jesse would tell him to not-so-politely shove it where the sun don’t shine and end the call. But since Genji is his friend, he merely grunts, downing this glass too.

“They would have taken everything away. _Everything_ he worked for his entire life. They would have expelled him from the clan, and I would have ended up dead. Properly dead.”

Jesse studies Genji's face through narrowed eyes, and he lets his anger simmer, just for the moment. “You’re saying he held back enough that he _saved_ your life?”

Genji’s shoulders sag just a little, and he hangs his head low again. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe that’s what I tell myself to make this easier.” He pauses and doesn't say anything for a long while. Jesse gives him space—he’s clearly processing _something_.

When Genji eventually does look up, his eyes have welled with tears. Jesse sits up, completely pushes the sarcastic bastard away because Genji needs him now.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Genji says slowly, quietly. “I might have reached out, I might be in a better place than I was years ago, but it is still hard. Seeing him. Talking to him. Helping him lower one wall he has up only to face another, higher wall. When we talk we argue—” Tears stream down his cheeks, and he turns away, covering his face with his hands.

Now Jesse feels like an asshole as the guilt truly settles on him. “Genji, I’m sorry.”

“And _now_ I have to deal with you, and your thoughts of him.” Genji inhales and exhales deeply, wiping his eyes and looking back at the screen. “I understand you’re frustrated. I understand you don’t _want_ to give him the time of day. But know that whatever you say or do to him comes back to me. I told him you were just protective, that you can be a stubborn, narrow-minded ass—”

“Hey, come on, now.”

Genji smiles, just a small little upwards quirk of his lips, and Jesse relaxes, slouching back down into his chair. “He is still remorseful for leaving you to tend to your wound alone.”

“Aww, hell,” Jesse says, looking away and dropping his hat so the brim covers his face.

He lets Genji's words sink in. Maybe Shimada _has_ changed his tune. Maybe Genji’s telling the truth, that he’s a different man to the one he was all those years ago. And if Genji is giving him a chance—a proper chance—then Jesse can too. Really put in the effort next time he sees him. Extend an olive branch, especially if Shimada does end up joining Overwatch in the future.

“When you see him next,” Jesse says, looking back at the screen, “tell him it’s all right.”

“He—” Genji stops short, takes a breath and holds it.

Jesse feels a stab of dread in the pit of his stomach. He just _knows_ where this conversation is headed. “He _what_?”

“Would you be interested in meeting one-on-one again? I told him about our friendship, how I consider you a brother…” Genji huffs a laugh. “The goofball brother I never had.”

Jesse cannot help but smile. “What did he say about that?”

“He could not believe that you could be anything but a sarcastic ass. And he _didn’t_ use the word ass, either.”

Chuckling, Jesse picks up the bottle of bourbon. “Yeah, I deserve that. I’ve been pretty unfriendly, honestly.” He pours himself more, placing the bottle on the table and picking up the glass. “I can give him the time for a chat.”

“Good. And please do not interrupt him. Listen to what he has to say, and know he is trying his hardest to atone for what he did.”

“I can do that,” Jesse says, taking a sip.

He _can_. He and Genji are close, they tell each other everything. They’ve been through hell and back with Blackwatch. This is the first time Genji’s ever uttered the word ‘brother’ when not describing his actual flesh and blood, and Jesse can’t help but feel a little spark of warmness in his heart. He’s never been anyone’s brother, not in that regard at least, and he likes it.

“So…” Genji starts, and Jesse turns his attention back to the monitor. “Where are you, anyway?”

“Philly.”

Genji scoffs. “You really are going to get Echo.”

“Yep. Phase one is complete, phase two is underway. All I need is her activation chip and to be in Arizona by Friday.”

Genji stares at Jesse flatly. “Jesse. That’s two days from now.”

“Yup.”

“You have not left yourself enough time.”

Jesse shrugs. “I’ll fly. You know how much hate it, but since I’m not working a case at the moment, I can pay in advance for a motel room here and leave the truck for a few days.”

Genji brings a hand up to his chin, his eyes unfocus just for a moment before snapping back to the screen. “I hope this has nothing to do with Deadlock.”

“And if it does?”

“Jesse—”

“I know,” Jesse retorts, his eyes flitting to his prosthetic. “I know,” he says, calmer, closing his eyes, rubbing them with his thumb and forefinger. He knows this is a bad idea, he knows it’ll open up old wounds, but Deadlock is his best bet going forward with this plan. “I’ll be prepared this time,” he says, looking at Genji. “I’ve grown in the years since then.”

Genji just stares back, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrow raised. “I _hope_ you know what you are doing.”

“I need Echo. _Overwatch_ need Echo. Deadlock will get her for me.”

“Would you like backup? I can be in the States by tomorrow evening.”

“Naw," Jesse says, shaking his head. "This is something I need to do on my own.”

“Take Hanzo at least. He can stay in the distance and they will not even know he is there. Just in case it goes belly up. _Again_.”

Jesse inhales and exhales slowly. It might not hurt having another set of eyes hunting for Echo’s activation chip. Shimada is skilled, Jesse will give him that. Jesse's hyper-aware of his surrounds thanks to his Blackwatch training, and on several occasions now he didn't realise Shimada had eyes on him until Shimada _wanted_ to be seen.  

He picks up his glass, looking at the amber alcohol. Having someone to watch his back when he confronts Deadlock might not be the worst thing in the world, especially if said person doesn’t have an emotional attachment to him, who won’t jump in and get themselves killed _if_ it goes south.

_Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t._

“I’ll think about it,” Jesse says, taking a sip. He’ll think about it, _if_ they don’t end up in another argument.

“Hanzo tells me you would be dead if he were not there on your last bounty hunt.”

“I _had_ it,” Jesse retorts, downing the rest. “Yeah, she shot me but I had it.”

“Not what he says,” Genji says, clearly amused if the smirk is anything to go by.

Jesse rolls his eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Meet with Hanzo. I will tell him you have agreed.”

“Eight p.m., Dirty Franks. I trust he’s followed me here?”

“You are beginning to understand him,” Genji says, his smirk growing wider.

“I’m beginning to realise his interest in me is quite stalkerish,” Jesse mutters.

“He is more interested in you now, given we have history.”

“I bet.” Jesse sighs, looking into his empty glass and placing it on the table. “Better get ready, put on my Sunday best.”

Genji rolls his eyes. “It is a meeting, not a date.”

“Tell him that, he's the one with the infatuation,” Jesse says with a sly smirk. Genji meets him with a flat stare, and Jesse clears his throat. “I’ll call you when I have Echo.”

Genji nods. “Thank you, Jesse.”

“Ain’t a problem, _brother_.”

The last thing Jesse sees before the display is shut off is Genji rolling his eyes again. He chuckles as he sits back in his seat, looking at the last lingering embers on the tip of his cigar, placing it on the ashtray to extinguish fully.

Glancing at the time, he has four hours to sober up, get ready, keep a lid on his conflicting feelings for Shimada, and focus on the plan to retrieve Echo’s chip.

He cannot help but have a silent chuckle to himself—he knew damn well he hadn’t seen the last of Shimada.

 

* * *

 

Jesse is nervous, and he has no idea why.

He’s just meeting up with Shimada. They’re going to talk. There’s literally _nothing_ to be nervous about.

At least he’s not angry. He’ll take the weird nervousness over anger.

The door of the bar opens, and Jesse glances up, seeing Shimada enter. Jesse flags him down with a nod, and Shimada stalks over silently, taking a seat.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Shimada says diplomatically.

“Ain’t nothin’,” Jesse murmurs, picking up his glass. “You want one?”

Shimada’s eyes flit to the glass, then back to him. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Jesse says taking a sip. He gives Shimada the opportunity to say something, but when the silence starts to drag, leaving a void of tense awkwardness, Jesse places his glass down, giving Shimada his full attention. “So. I had a little chat with your brother. Told me I was acting like an ass.”

Hanzo smirks, that same little upwards quirk of his lips like Genji, and just as quickly as it arrives, it disappears. “You had every right to,” he says diplomatically. “I was unaware of your connection to him.”

“So you didn’t know I was Blackwatch?”

“I knew, but Blackwatch were vast, yes? I did not think that you and Genji would be close friends.”

“Well,” Jesse says, picking up his glass again, “didn’t mean I had to be a dick.”

Shimada smiles, and it’s a trademark Shimada smile—showing the barest hint of teeth yet somehow it’s still fear-inducing. Jesse is truly astonished it took him as long as it did to figure out who he was.

“If the situations were reversed,” Shimada says, “I would not have acted as… gentlemanly as you.”

Jesse barks a laugh. “Wasn’t a gentleman, I can tell you that,” he says, finishing the rest of his drink.

Keeping the glass in his hand, Jesse stares Shimada down as Shimada bores back, intimidating, unblinking. He’s been in staredowns like this with Genji, many times, and by now, Genji would have cracked, smirking and rolling his eyes, making some wisecrack about Jesse getting lost in his eyes and wanting him.

Shimada though, he doesn’t budge, and neither will Jesse. As moments pass, Jesse can’t help but appreciate the fact that despite his abrasive nature, Shimada _is_ a good looking guy. He ticks all the boxes: dark eyes, distinguished, brooding personality, and someone who _won’t_ order a damn strawberry daiquiri.

Just as quickly as those thoughts arrive, he buries them. He will not check out his best friend’s brother.

The silence stretches between them, and Jesse contemplates asking Shimada here and now to explain himself, so he has the opportunity to hear straight from the horse's mouth why he did what he did to Genji. He decides against it, though, because he isn't sure he'll be able to keep his anger in check.

Considering he's on the verge of retrieving Echo's chip, _and_ he’s about to ask Shimada to help, it is something that can wait until after.

If there _is_ an after.

“So,” Jesse says, placing his glass down on the table, and Shimada finally blinks into now. “I don’t know if Genji mentioned it to you, but I’m going on a mission of sorts. I could use the backup.”

“What kind of mission?” Shimada asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“Retrieval. The item is hidden in an old Blackwatch safe house, but the army has control of it now. Intel shows it’s empty, but you can never be too sure.”

“And what is the item?”

“Something that’ll help a budding, recently recalled operation we both a have a mutual interest in.”

Shimada sits back in his seat and rubs his chin. After a moment, he nods subtly and his eyes snap to Jesse’s. “Will it be dangerous?”

Jesse shrugs. “Probably. If we encounter resistance.”

A smirk spreads on Shimada’s lips, and Jesse can’t help but smirk back; finally, someone who appreciates the thrill of a dangerous hunt.

“Okay,” Shimada says with an affirmative nod.

“A’ight,” Jesse replies, standing. “Come with me.” Jesse leads him through the bar, out the back door and into the parking lot. "The safehouse is in there," Jesse says, flicking his head towards Neshaminy State Park.

Shimada frowns, meeting Jesse's eyes. "You were allowed to build one in there?"

"No one knew, it’s underground," Jesse says, glancing at Shimada and winking. He pulls a cigar from his pocket, placing it between his teeth. "Unfortunately, since then, it's been reclaimed by the Government." He lights up, puffing to ignite the end and exhales, long and slow when his mouth fills with smoke. "It was taken after Overwatch was shut down, had a lot of empty rooms we used for long-term storage. After it was taken, it went from full capacity to skeleton crew, to nothing but security monitoring and gathering dust. I can bypass the cameras and disable the alarms, so we’ll be able to sneak in and out without them knowing."

Shimada inhales and exhales slowly, folding his arms across his chest. "What are we retrieving?"

"Just something our mutual friends need."

"And _how_ am I supposed to help you if you will not tell me what it is?" Shimada asks, frustration tinging his words.

"The help you're providing is covering my six." Jesse turns to face Shimada. "No offence, Shimada, but I don't _know_ you. I’m not going to put this entire mission in jeopardy by putting what little trust I have in you."

Much to Jesse's surprise, Shimada smirks. "There may be some hope for you after all."

Jesse scoffs. "Thanks," he replies flatly, puffing on his cigar. Not that he doubted it, but he is a Shimada, through and through. His backhanders sting as much as Genji’s do.

"When do we leave?"

"Well,” Jesse says, sideways glancing at Shimada and smirking, “no time like the present."

"Lead the way."

"Don't have your weapon on you?" Jesse asks, giving Shimada one long look down and absolutely not seeing anything resembling a bow on him.

Shimada pulls back his jacket, revealing a handgun tucked into a holster around his waist. When Jesse meets his eye, he raises an eyebrow.

Jesse cannot help but chuckle. "Seems there's hope for you too. Come on, we're wasting the night."

Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, Jesse leads Hanzo into the park, following the path to a little fenced off homestead. Sticking to the shadows, Jesse grabs his scanner, old Blackwatch tech he shouldn't have but no one's the wiser, using it to bypass the security feed. Once he receives confirmation, he steps out of the shadows and looks at the feed, not seeing himself on the camera.

He pockets the scanner, approaching the rear of the homestead to the locked cellar. This area is blocked off by a chainlink fence, and he reads the faded sign hanging on it: _Danger. Sinkholes reported. This area is unsafe for visitors._

Huffing a laugh, he pulls a pair of pliers from his pocket and snips away at the fence.

"You are literally an anachronism," Shimada says flatly.

Jesse scoffs. "Rich coming from the guy who uses a bow.”

"It is effective."

Jesse opens his mouth to retort and he quickly snaps his mouth shut, biting his tongue when the image of Shimada with a bloodied blade in his hands appears in his mind. He promised Genji he would not snap at him again, and he reminds himself that Shimada is atoning for his actions. Apparently.

Making the last snip, the fence coils in on itself, and Jesse looks at Shimada as he pulls out Peacekeeper. He crawls through the hole first, approaching the cellar. It’s old school, it still has a padlock meant for a key and Jesse smirks. Kneeling, he plucks out his lock picking kit from his pocket, working on the lock.

"Surely breaking the lock would be far eas—"

Jesse pulls the padlock away, waving it as he glances up and winks at Shimada. "You were saying?"

"You are quite skilled," Shimada mumbles under his breath.

Jesse smirks as he stands, cupping a hand behind his ear and leaning in closer to Shimada. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Shimada rolls his eyes, and it's something he's seen countless times before from Genji. They are so much more alike than he ever thought.

Pocketing the kit and the lock, Jesse opens the cellar door. He casts his flashlight down the short wooden stairwell, and a small part of him hopes that the sign about the sinkholes was just a ruse.

Unholstering Peacekeeper, he listens out for anything out of the ordinary. When he's met with a long stretch of silence, he climbs down. The steps are rickety, creaking under his weight, and he sighs a breath of relief when he stands on solid concrete.

"We won't have long," Jesse whispers when Shimada stands beside him. "Don’t want to spend any longer in here than we have to."

Shimada nods, drawing his own gun. "Lead the way," he whispers.

Jesse takes the lead, walking down the dark hallway past two doors before stopping at the third. He tries opening it, and unsurprisingly, it's locked. Tech down here exists, and activating his scanner again, this door, in particular, is locked with rolling encryptions. It only takes a moment to unlock the door, and once they’re inside, Jesse sets up his own encryption on the lock.

“Can’t be too careful,” Jesse breathes, turning on the light and looking around the small room. Crates are stacked on each other, floor to ceiling. He grabs one and opens it, revealing old Blackwatch uniforms.

Smiling wistfully, he appreciates this blast from the past. He wore these clothes day in, day out, and they were so incredibly uncomfortable. When the feeling passes, he closes the crate and puts it back, approaching the far wall, housing the locked boxes.

"I know what we're looking for is in this wall,” Jesse says with a sigh, pulling out the scanner again from his pocket. “Just don't know which box."

Gabe never did tell him which box, nor was there any note of it with his things when Jesse packed up his room after Switzerland. Holding the scanner to the first box, bypassing the lock takes approximately thirty seconds. There are eighty boxes, so it will take no longer than forty minutes to check them all, assuming Echo's chip is in the last one. Quick and easy.  

Jesse opens the first box, and disappointingly it’s empty. He closes it and moves onto the second box.

“Did you spend much time in this safehouse?” Shimada asks from behind him.

That throws Jesse back. Some of his best memories are in this safehouse. Some of his worst are here, too. “Sure did,” Jesse murmurs, opening the second box, which is also empty.

"Is that a hint of dread I hear in your voice?"

"A little. Spent many a time in this same safehouse with your brother. It's bringing back some memories I don't fancy reliving."

It was in this safehouse where Genji first opened up about the betrayal he felt about his brother. Jesse had to talk Genji down from the edge that same night.

Seems fitting Jesse's with his brother now; in a sick, twisted sort of way.

Jesse swallows down the ball of rage sitting in his gut, reminding himself again that he promised Genji he wouldn't snap. That there is proof enough that Genji is a different person from the man he knew during their Blackwatch days. Genji said he would never, _ever_ forgive his brother for what he did, and here he is, forgiven him and inviting him to join Overwatch.

And _that_ should be proof enough that Shimada can change in that same amount of time. Jesse has absolutely no reason to doubt Genji, he owes it to him, as the goofball bother he never had.

And ultimately, if Genji can forgive him, then Jesse absolutely can, too.

"Hey, ah," Jesse starts, opening the first locked box containing something, and he huffs—it's just a data chip. "I want to apologise for being a dick."

"I believe you already did?"

"Didn't say the words."

"Apology accepted, then."

Jesse huffs a little laugh, continuing to open the boxes, and the next three are empty. "You... Wanna tell me what you were going to say?"

"Hmm?"

"When I cut you off twice. You said I don't understand." Jesse looks at the scanner, before turning and facing Shimada. "I'm willing to listen, hear your side of the story," he shrugs, "if you want."

Shimada nods slowly, leaning against the wall. He inhales and exhales deeply, looking at his feet. "I am a fool."

Well, Jesse isn't going to argue with that. Shimada doesn’t look up, and Jesse gives him one last glance before giving him space, turning his attention back to the boxes.

"They told me he was a liability," Shimada says, quieter, sadder. "Told me that he was a threat to the clan, that we would be seen as weak because of his frivolous activities." Shimada pauses, and Jesse stops the scanner, dropping his head as Shimada sighs heavily.

"They made you?" Jesse asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Shimada nods. "They said if I couldn't bring him into line, I would have to deal with him. And not deal with him in the sense of excising him from the clan. He knew too much, about our inner workings and business associates. He could have gone to the police and brought the clan down himself if he wanted. I—" Shimada stops short, his mouth hangs open like he has more to say but nothing comes out. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I had to do the only thing which made sense at the time," he says, voice barely a whisper.

"Still..."

"He was my _brother_ ," Shimada seethes, meeting Jesse's eyes. "They had their claws in me so deep and I did not realise. I was their puppet and I _killed_ my brother." Hanzo pushes himself off the wall, turning his back on Jesse.

Jesse stops working now, looking at the back of Shimada's head. He can see how tense his shoulders are, the tremors in his balled fists. That isn't the body language of someone who doesn't care; that's the body language of someone at war with themselves. Someone who knows that what they've done was wrong. Jesse can see it now—the regret, the years of remorse pulling Hanzo down, and Jesse’s heart aches for him.

"Genji told me that if it wasn't you, it would have been someone else," Jesse says quietly.

Hanzo nods, his back still turned on Jesse, but he opens his hands and his shoulders sag. "I had spent my entire life working towards that moment,” Hanzo murmurs. “I had been trained, lectured, scrutinised _, punished_ every moment of every day, working to be the most successful, the most feared leader the clan had ever seen.” He huffs a sardonic laugh. “And all it took was three weeks of them in my ear to tear it down.”

There is a long pause, and Jesse knows he should offer some comfort, but if Hanzo's anything like Genji, he will _hate_ people in his personal space right now. So he leaves him be. Doesn't continue looking for the chip though, he wants to make sure Hanzo knows he's here and has his full attention.

“At the time,” Hanzo continues, “Genji was an obstacle. The last obstacle to overcome to truly have what I wanted, what I had worked so hard for." He turns, and Jesse can see his teary eyes. "I regret what I did. From the moment I did it, the days that followed, until it broke me and I left. I turned my back on _everything_. It was something I should have done the moment they suggested I take my blade to him. I could have left then, left _with_ him, and I would still have the young, carefree boy that he was, not the—not _what_ I have _turned_ him into now."

Hanzo sighs heavily, looking at Jesse with watery eyes, and Jesse’s heart practically breaks. He can see the years of remorse and guilt that's eaten away at him. He can see in Hanzo's eyes just how much he wishes he could take it all back.

And he knows Hanzo isn't lying, either. Jesse knows what happened in the days that followed Genji’s incident thanks to Blackwatch intel. They had eyes on the clan, and watching from afar, Hanzo left a week after the fact, in the dead of night. The clan remained, though. It barely took a hit with him gone—which is probably indicative of just how controlled Hanzo was. He was the face, but he wasn't in charge in any way, shape or form.

It makes sense—and Jesse can't believe he's using _that_ word—that he did what he did to Genji. It wasn't his actions, his idea, it was _theirs._ And if Hanzo truly did hold back, whether intentional or not, then it proves that he’s at the very least not as heartless as Jesse originally thought.

Jesse snaps back into the present when he hears Hanzo sniffle. He approaches him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Hanzo, truly, for everything. I... I only saw the fallout, seeing Genji recover from what happened."

"I wish to thank you," Hanzo says, voice barely a whisper. "You were there for him in a way I never _ever_ was."

Jesse shrugs. "Ain't nothing."

“Genji loves you, more than he will ever love me, I believe." Hanzo smiles wistfully. "This is my punishment. He says he forgives me, but I can see it in his eyes, he does not, not truly. He is quick to anger, and sometimes I question whether I should stay or go."

"Stay," Jesse says without thinking, and Hanzo looks at him with wide eyes. "Genji might not say it, and his eyes might betray his feelings, but he'd be heartbroken if you left. He'd sometimes get nostalgic, talk about when you and he were kids, how he'd follow you everywhere and look up to you and—" Jesse stops his rambling thoughts, sighing. Hanzo probably doesn’t _need_ to hear this now. "If he didn't want you in his life, he wouldn't have reached out."

Hanzo's eyes soften, and he smiles faintly. "I do not know why I am telling you all this."

"I have that effect on people," Jesse says, giving Hanzo's shoulder one last squeeze, and Hanzo nods. "Any time you wanna talk, you know where to find me." He approaches the boxes again, looks over his shoulder and smirks playfully. "Since following me is your favourite hobby."

Hanzo scoffs, and Jesse catches the mischevious little glint in his eye. "I am just making sure you do not get yourself killed. Genji would be quite upset if anything were to happen to you."

Jesse chuckles, looking at the scanner. "Aww, come on now, you can't deny that there's this unavoidable thing between us."

"Please," Hanzo replies flatly. "I—"

Jesse freezes when he hears the keypad being pressed on the other side of the door.

They're not alone.

"Hurry," Hanzo hisses.

"Yep." Jesse works as quick as he can, searching for the chip.

_Open. Empty. Close._

_Open. Empty. Close._

_Open._ "Damn these lockers." _Close._

"They are trying to break through the encryption."

"Won't stop 'em for long."

"I thought you said this base was empty!"

"That's what I thought too!"

The door unlocks and Hanzo stands beside it, gun at the ready. "Be quick."

The second the door opens, Hanzo clocks someone over the head with the butt of his gun, and they fall to the ground. He pokes his head through and immediately ducks back in. "Three, at least."

Jesse nods, opening the next one. _Empty_.

"I will take them out."

"Just don’t—" Jesse looks over his shoulder when he hears gunshots, and Hanzo is gone. "You better not get yourself killed or Genji will _never_ forgive _me._ " He turns his attention to the next locker, praying to anyone that'll listen that Echo's chip is in there and when he opens the door, revealing a familiar chrome case, he practically cheers. He picks it up, opens it, confirms it's the chip before pocketing it and the scanner.

He unholsters Peacekeeper on his way to the door, looking at the unconscious guard before peeking around the corner. There are no more gunshots, but he can see someone's feet and legs from around the next corner. They're lying on the ground, so they're unconscious at the very least.

"A'ight," he breathes, cocking Peacekeeper's hammer. Gun drawn, he steps out of the room, heading towards the mystery feet. If they were Hanzo's he would have guards on him, but since it's nothing but silence, he assumes it's another guard.

Still, he approaches slowly, cautiously, peering around the corner and seeing three unconscious guards. None of them are bleeding, so however the hell Hanzo managed to incapacitate them so quickly and silently is beyond him.

And as to _where_ Hanzo is, that's another story. He looks down the corridor, then back—

Adrenaline floods his system when he sees the person standing behind him, and he aims his gun at the person’s chest. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Hanzo’s face.

Hanzo raises his hands in surrender. "My apologies."

Coming down from the fright of his life—not that he would tell Hanzo that—he lowers Peacekeeper. "There any more of 'em?”

“At least ten. Did you find the item?"

"Yeah. Let’s get a move on." Jesse leads Hanzo back the way they came, up the stairs and through the cellar doors. When Hanzo steps through, Jesse closes the doors, locking them with the padlock again. He hears movement somewhere to his left, he crouch runs to the fence. "Hurry!"

A gunshot rings out, cutting through the silence, and Jesse hits the ground. He looks over his shoulder at Hanzo.

"I'm fine," Hanzo replies, nodding.

Jesse continues on, commando crawling through the hole in the chainlink fence. He hears more gunshots from behind him, looking over his shoulder again and seeing Hanzo firing. On the other side, he lays down covering fire for Hanzo and once he's through, he sprints off into the forest.

Jesse follows behind, all the way back to the bar. Hanzo approaches a car, opens the trunk and grabs out a duffel bag. Jesse unlocks his truck, hops in, starts the ignition and the second Hanzo's door is closed, he takes off, tearing out of the parking lot and onto the street.

It takes a while for the adrenaline to wear off, but once they're on the interstate and absolutely don't have a tail on them, he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Shit,” Jesse says with a chuckle, “ain't had a rush like that in a long time."

Hanzo sighs, and Jesse looks over as he sweeps his bangs out of his face.

"You okay?"

Hanzo nods, and his eyes snap to meet Jesse’s. "I would like to see what we just risked our lives for."

Jesse inhales and exhales slowly. Hanzo’s proven himself to be incredibly skilled, and if he’s quiet enough to sneak up on the former black-ops agent, he would be invaluable when he confronts Deadlock. Having Hanzo look over his shoulder would be a load off his mind, and it won’t be the worst thing in the world.

On top of that, Hanzo has just proven that he isn't going to jeopardize this mission.

Reaching into his pocket, Jesse pulls out the case and hands it over.

Hanzo opens it cautiously, and he frowns. “This? You risked our lives for _this_?”

“It’s important,” Jesse defends.

“How important?”

Jesse looks at Hanzo and smirks. “How about we discuss it over a drink? I'm buying.”


	6. Partners in Crime

Jesse sighs contently, watching as two shot glasses, a bottle of Four Roses bourbon and an ashtray are placed down on the coffee table. “Thanks, Wilson.”

“Anytime, Jesse.”

Jesse tips his hat, watching the old bartender hobble away. He's aged so much since Jesse's last stop through six months ago, and he doesn’t look like he’ll have much longer.

“You are sure it is safe here?” Hanzo asks, voice hushed, despite being in the back room and away from the general public.

“This little bar has been my safehouse for the last five years,” Jesse says, sadness tinged in his words. He'll have to find somewhere new.

Sighing, Jesse reaches inside his jacket pocket, pulling out two cigars and offering one to Hanzo.

Hanzo takes it, holding it between his fingers as he analyses the label. “Cuban,” he says, glancing at Jesse.

“Only the best.”

Hanzo smiles, and Jesse notes that this is the first time he looks genuinely happy. There's no snark behind the smile, no scorn, just joy.

It suits him.

Jesse pulls his cigar cutter and lighter from his pocket, cutting the tip of his cigar. “Wilson won’t rat us out, don’t you worry,” he says, handing the cutter over to Hanzo.

“How do you know him?”

Jesse hums, lighting the cigar, puffing to ignite the end. He closes his eyes and sits back in the armchair; there's absolutely nothing better than a good cigar after a successful mission. Exhaling and opening his eyes again, he settles on a smirking Hanzo.

“What?”

“You were going to tell me about how you met Wilson,” he says, holding his hand out again.

“Right,” Jesse murmurs, handing over the lighter. “Used this as a pit stop five years back, it was after a bad hunt. Ended up with broken ribs that day…” Jesse trails off, watching Hanzo light up.

Hanzo is clearly no stranger to cigars, holding it expertly between thumb and forefinger, taking quick puffs to ignite the end. But it's the way his lips wrap around the cigar that leaves Jesse feeling a little hot under the collar.

When Hanzo snaps the lighter shut, Jesse's freed from his stupor. He lowers his head so the brim of his hat hides his face and his bright red cheeks given how warm he feels right now. He busies himself, pouring the bourbon as slow as possible without making it look obvious that he is stalling for time.

“So you had broken ribs?” Hanzo prompts.

“Yeah,” Jesse replies, setting the bottle down and looking Hanzo in the eye.

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, and Jesse knows this is it, that he was caught staring and Hanzo's about to rub it in his face. “And you chose to sit at a bar nursing those injuries?”

Taking a mental sigh of relief, Jesse picks up his glass and sits back in his seat. “Sitting at a bar is resting.”

“It is a miracle you are still alive,” Hanzo replies flatly.

“Count my lucky stars every damn day,” Jesse says with a wink.

“So what happened?” Hanzo asks, reaching for his glass. “I assume you did not find yourself in this arrangement out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Naw," Jesse says, puffing on his cigar. "It was late and a couple of kids came in. The kind of ones who you can look at and immediately tell they're trouble. They pulled a gun on Wilson, threatened to kill him if he didn't hand over all his cash.” Jesse sighs, looking at the alcohol in his glass. “So I do what any good citizen would do.”

“You killed them.”

Jesse frowns, meeting Hanzo’s gaze. “What? No. They were kids. Twenty years old at most.”

“ _Adults_ entered this establishment and threatened the owner at gunpoint. If I had been here they would have left in body bags.”

“You're—” Jesse snaps his mouth shut when Hanzo smirks. It seems Hanzo has a dark sense of humour, and Jesse _loves_ it. “You are one sadistic son of a bitch, you know that.”

“So what did you do, Sheriff?”

“Sheriff?” Jesse chuckles, grinning wide when Hanzo winks. Hanzo’s actually a funny, decent guy. A bit of a flirt, incredibly competent, has impressive skills, is handsome—Jesse has to shake his head to break himself from his thoughts. “So," he says slowly, dragging out the word as he picks up his glass, "I walk up to the bar, they tell me not so nicely to mind my own business and leave. It takes me all of five seconds to disarm the both of ‘em. A couple minutes after that the cops arrive and take them away.”

“I take it back. If you could disarm two people in under five seconds with broken ribs, they must have been children.”

“Told you,” Jesse says grinning. He puffs on his cigar, exhales and looks at the glowing end. “Wasn't the first time those kids took advantage of Wilson, but it sure as shit was the last. Wilson offered me free booze for life and a place to lay low if I ever needed it. I refused, of course, but he insisted, and I can tell you, the old coot doesn't take no for an answer.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Wilson says, poking his head in. “I might be on my last legs but I ain't deaf.”

Jesse huffs a laugh, raising his glass in toast before downing the lot. Wilson brushes him off with the wave of his hand before continuing on with his business.

“So,” Hanzo starts, pouring the bourbon into his glass, then in Jesse's when he sets it down. “What is the chip for.”

“It’s an activation chip.” Jesse places the cigar between his teeth, reaching into his pocket for the case. He places it down on the table and opens it. “Her name’s Echo. She’s been locked up in deep storage since Blackwatch went under investigation. Easy to shut down an Omnic,” he says sardonically, taking a puff of his cigar. “We handed her over without the chip, Gabe said they could pry that from his cold, dead hands and somehow they listened to him. She was never reactivated, because not long after everything fell apart.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Coming on ten years now.”

Hanzo hums, taking a sip of his bourbon. “What does she do?”

“Everything. She can teleport right into a hot zone, provide shields, administer healing and fight back all at the same time. She was experimental, she never made it out on a real mission, but she was ready. If she’d been able to get out there, the world would be a better place.” Jesse sighs heavily. “But they locked her up, and she hasn’t seen the light of day since.” He picks up his glass, downs the lot and pours himself more. “ _They_ need her. She’ll get it all up and running. She can protect them.”

Hanzo leans back in his seat, puffs on his cigar. “A noble cause.”

“Certainly is.”

“And do you have plans to follow her?” Hanzo asks.

“Naw,” Jesse replies, shaking his head. He pours himself more bourbon. “They don’t need me.”

“I would beg to differ.”

Jesse's eyes snap to meet Hanzo's, and he cannot help but smile. “Oh?”

“Your knowledge obtained from Blackwatch alone would be incredibly vital to them. Considering they would be acting illegally, you have the skills to ensure they are covert.”

“True,” Jesse breathes. There is a truth there, but since Genji's said yes, they have that knowledge already.

More proof that they don't need him.

“What about you?” Jesse asks. “You know how to run a business. I’m sure you’ve got leadership potential, too.”

Hanzo smirks dangerously, bringing his glass up to his mouth. “And be tied to a desk, instead of out here, living and breathing? I do not think so.” He downs the lot and doesn’t even wince. Seems he can hold his liquor.

Cigars, booze, looks, and a sense of humour—Hanzo’s the complete package.

Shelving his thirsty thoughts for the moment, Jesse picks up the bottle of bourbon. “That’s exactly why I refused,” he says, pouring Hanzo more. “They don’t need leaders yet. They need people who can rebuild it. That ain’t me.”

“Nor I.”

Jesse meets Hanzo's gaze. “So you’re not going to follow Genji, then?”

“I—” Hanzo snaps his mouth shut and sits back in his seat. “It is probably not wise that we spend too much time in the same space together,” he says quietly. “Not yet, anyway.”

Jesse knows he's probably about to walk into a minefield, but he's hoping Hanzo will talk, coming off the back of playful banter. “How do you feel about him reaching out?”

Hanzo is silent for a long time, his gaze shifting from Jesse to his drink on the table. His face is neutral though, there is no wrinkling of his nose, no narrowing of his eyes, and Jesse can’t tell what kind of mood he’s in. When he crosses his arms, tapping a finger on his bicep, Jesse can tell that he’s thinking hard, probably at war with himself and choosing his words carefully.  

“It’ll stay between us,” Jesse says quietly, and Hanzo looks back at him again. “If you’re worried that whatever you say about Genji or your reasons for turning him down will get back to him, don’t. I’m not a snitch.” When Hanzo frowns, Jesse holds up his right hand, before pressing it to his chest. “Scout’s honour.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

Jesse smiles sympathetically and nods. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be right here. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but know that you don’t have to face this alone.”

Hanzo’s frown darkens, and Jesse can see the storm brewing behind his eyes. “You would help me, even though you are emotionally vested in Genji? You said it yourself, you saw the aftermath. You saw what I did to him first hand. _Why_ would you help _me_?”

It’s just like Genji said: Jesse lowered one wall and was treated to Hanzo’s playful side, and all of a sudden another is raised, completely blocking him out. Given what Jesse knows about Hanzo, about how he was essentially manipulated to do harm to Genji, it makes sense for him to question help, question friendship, question genuine acts of kindness because the last time he thought someone had his best interests at heart, it got his brother killed.

Jesse isn’t angered or put off by the sudden change in attitude. It makes sense, and responding with anything _other_ than kindness would do so much more harm than good.

“‘Cause despite it all,” Jesse says, smiling softly, “Genji loves you. And if I can help in any way to rebuild your relationship, I want to.”

The frown doesn’t drop from Hanzo’s face, and Jesse inhales and exhales slowly.

“I get it,” Jesse continues, “you don’t trust me. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t trust me either. But I _do_ want to help you.”

After a long, intense stare down, Hanzo relaxes, dropping his head. “Thank you,” he says, barely a whisper, but Jesse catches it.

“No problem,” Jesse replies, nodding when he meets Hanzo’s gaze. Hanzo looks at his drink, picking up his glass and taking a long, slow sip.  

“Besides,” Jesse says jovially when Hanzo places his glass down, an attempt to clear the tense air, “since you’ve become my shadow, I’ve found I enjoy your company.”

Hanzo barks a laugh and smiles wide, and Jesse knows he’ll be okay. “I am _not_ your shadow,” he states.

“I’m convinced you've been following me since New York.”

“I _told_ you that Jeff contacted me and sent me to Seattle. I have no idea what you did in San Antonio. _Or_ in Europe.” Hanzo smirks dangerously, and Jesse cannot help but smirk back.

“You’re a fan, huh?”

“I have been enamoured by the musings of Joel Morricone for a long time. Seeing _him_ in person at that café in New York was exciting. Realising it was _you_ , Jesse McCree, with that sizable bounty on your head brazenly hiding in plain sight? I was impressed.”

“Thanks,” Jesse replies confidently. He holds up his glass in toast and Hanzo clinks his against Jesse’s before taking a sip. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a fan before. Didn’t think I had any, honestly.”

“You have a way with words,” Hanzo replies. “You draw people in using sounds and smells, creating more than a just mere image in one's mind.”

“Thank you,” Jesse says, a little more reserved. He's sure he's blushing, no one's _ever_ complimented him on his writing before.

Hanzo bows his head and leans back into the couch. He has that same mischievous little glint in his eye from earlier, a small upwards quirk in his lips. It really does suit him, better than that flat stare he gives. _This_ look shows off his cheekbones which are about as sharp as his personality.

Jesse's expecting Hanzo to land a backhand, and he waits in eager anticipation for it. But as the silence only grows, Hanzo just leers at him from over the top of his glass like a predator sizing up their prey, before taking another long, slow sip.

“So,” Jesse says, breaking Hanzo out of whatever thoughts he was having, “there’s another part to this mission, if you’re interested.”

“Retrieving Echo?”

Jesse nods. “Dangerous, too. More dangerous than we just faced.”

There’s that smirk again, and Jesse already knows he’s agreed to it. “How dangerous?” Hanzo asks despite it.

“Going to con some old friends to do the dirty part, then I'll swoop in and take Echo. They’ll resist, but I’ll make it work.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Was thinking you could use those sharp eyes of yours to keep an eye on the situation from afar. This is something I need to do alone, but having you watching my back? It’ll be a load off my mind.”

Hanzo holds out his glass again, and Jesse clinks his against it, finishing the lot.

“And I was thinking, after that,” Jesse places his glass down, “we could work together.”

Hanzo's eyes snap to meet Jesse's. “Partners?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine it? The two of us, the world’s most dangerous duo putting the scum behind bars.” Jesse smiles. “I’ve been working alone for too long, and working with someone—with you—has been a nice change. You can't deny that we have synergy.” He extends his hand. “So what do you say, partner?”

Hanzo looks at Jesse’s hand and takes it. His grip is strong, and his hand lingers there, longer than necessary, not that Jesse is complaining. When Hanzo looks back, he is grinning from ear to ear. “Partner. Partners in crime.”

Jesse chuckles. "'Partners in crime? I like that."

Hanzo finally pulls his hand away, and Jesse feels a little twinge in his gut. He has an overwhelming urge to reach out and grab Hanzo's hand again, hold it in his and weave their fingers together.

Burying that thought for the moment—it's something he can think about when not sitting in the backroom of a bar with the man in question—he busies himself, reaching into his pocket and relighting his cigar, taking a deep puff.

Exhaling, he looks at Hanzo and winks. “Well then, we better go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it!! 
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you for following me on this journey. I've had this idea of Jesse and Hanzo being rival hunters before eventually working together pre-Recall sitting in my mind for quite a while. But seeing Reunion, the story clicked, I guess, where we know he's doing his own thing after Recall, and he finds the means to liberate Echo to help Overwatch. I just fell in love with the idea of Jesse and Hanzo meeting between Recall/Dragons and Reunion.
> 
> I want to thank Red again for being an amazing partner and producing some fantastic artwork. I truly cannot stop looking at it!
> 
> I've got a few other fics in the works that I can finally work on now that I'm not spending every spare moment on this fic. Keep an eye out for them ;-)
> 
> Until next time!  
> \--Chillie ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Want to know the second a chapter drops? Follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BeanChillie)


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